


Captive

by PeachWord



Category: White Collar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 30,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24693667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachWord/pseuds/PeachWord
Summary: It has been quite a long time since Neal considered himself a free man, but he never feared for his life until now.
Comments: 184
Kudos: 139





	1. Friday Nights

“You have 15 minutes,” Jorge said, closing the door.

The locks turned from the outside.

Neal grabbed the edge of the sink. His knees were wobbly. 

He turned around and leaned against the wall for support. He turned the knobs. The water came on. As steam filled the bathroom, he removed his boxers—that’s all he had on anyways. The rest of his clothes were being washed at the moment. He bent down slowly, holding his breath, and threw the boxers in the trash can. Jorge didn’t bother to wash them. He didn’t like how there was so much evidence. Too much blood and semen on them. The new ones from Target were in the hallway closet.

Neal leaned against the sink, trying to catch his breath amid his broken ribs. He looked up, instinctively, but didn’t see his reflection. Jorge had taken out the mirrors. Nobody, including himself, got to look at his face or body, except Jorge of course.

The hot water hit his head, then cascaded down his body. It stung at first, it always did. There were too many wounds; open, old, infectious wounds. Neal held onto the handicap steel bar for support. He became entranced with the bloodied water swirling down the drain. He waited a minute—waited for it to become clear again—to become pure. When it did, he moved onto the shampoo. His hair had finally grown back. Jorge cut it, maybe a month ago? It wasn’t an easy task, washing it with one hand, but using two meant falling. He barely had the strength to do the minimum, but he got one shower a week, and he wasn’t going to let it go to waste. He fixated on the drain again, for the second wave of bloodied water had appeared. He hoped the cut on his scalp wasn’t infected.

He grabbed the body wash and poured as much as could onto himself. He reached out and massaged as gently as he could in between his buttocks. He bit his lip. The last thing he wanted was for Jorge to “help”. He turned around, letting the water hit his back. He never looked at the drain during this part. The first, and last time, he did, there was so much blood he thought he was actually bleeding to death, and had a panic attack on the ceramic floor.

He turned back around and turned the cold water off. He looked down.

The water was clear.

Pure.

He relaxed. 60 seconds he gave himself to just feel normal.

It was all he had.

He turned the water off and grabbed the towel. It had just come from the dryer. He wrapped it around his waist. It took him a full minute to get out. The toilet lid was already closed, just as he meant for it to be. He sat down on it, ignoring the immense pain in his ribs.

“Times up,” Jorge said from the other side of the door.

Neal stood, knowing the routine.

The door opened. Jorge held out his hand. Neal took it and let his captor lead the way. They entered the bedroom. Neal took a step towards the bed.

“Uh-uh,” Jorge said.

Neal closed his eyes for a brief second. He removed his towel and handed it over.

“Good.”

Neal sat down on the right side, next to the two pillows. He lifted his left wrist towards the bed post. Jorge inched towards him, smiling. He ran his hands through Neal’s wet hair. “So beautiful, you know that?” he said, as he cuffed Neal’s wrist. He double checked to make sure it was secure.

Neal sighed and laid down, turning onto his left side. He hated Fridays. He preferred the six other days of the week, when he was left in the cold basement, chained to the pole.

Jorge got in the bed and inched his way toward Neal. He curled against him, spooning his captee. He would be asleep in minutes. “I love you,” he whispered into his ear.

Neal didn’t respond—he never did. He knew he would pay for it in the morning, but he didn’t care. Jorge was going to rape him whether he said it or not.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little bit more explicit.

“No!” Neal screamed, shoving his arms into Jorge’s chest. 

Jorge stumbled back, spilling some of the liquid onto the cement floor. 

Neal was breathing erratically, he was looking for somewhere to hide, but he knew every inch of the basement he was in. 

Jorge grabbed him by the throat, pushing him against the brick wall. “Keep your voice down,” he sneered as he shoved the tip of the bottle into Neal’s mouth. “Drink it.”

Neal shook his head, pleading with his eyes. 

Jorge grabbed the back of Neal’s head and yanked it back. The tip of the bottle was again pressed against Neal’s lips. Two mouthfuls slid down his throat. It tasted like chemicals and rotten cherries—he never got used to the taste, no matter how many times it was forced down. 

Jorge pressed his lips against Neal’s neck. “Why do you fight me, honey?” he asked. The energy was draining from Neal’s body. His bones were getting heavier and heavier. He felt his knees wobble. Jorge guided him towards the floor. 

Jorge grabbed his jaw. “You made me do this, you understand that, right? I wanted it to be nice, but you just had to be difficult, didn’t you?”

Neal didn’t respond. A swift backhand across the cheek ensued. A hand grabbed a fistful of his hair.

Jorge grazed his fingers along Neal’s arm, slowing traveling up, across his chest. He moved his head, his lips hovered over Neal’s ear. He licked it, slowly, then bit down gently. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said as he slipped his fingers around the hem of Neal’s pants. 

“Please,” Neal said. “Not tonight.”

He pushed Neal to his side, and turned him onto his stomach. His cheek lay flat against the cold cement floor. He gasped and shuddered as Jorge entered him. There was no lube…he saved that for Saturday mornings only. “Doesn’t that feel good, baby?” Jorge whispered into his ear. 

Neal cried silently. He didn’t scream—he didn’t see the point. 

Jorge’s hands squeezed his hips again, then one traveled upward, towards his neck. He was almost done. “Say it, baby,” he panted. “Say it now.”

Neal didn’t want to. It made him feel so fucking dirty. 

“Okay, baby, I get it, you don’t want me to finish.”

“Please, sir, I want your hot cum inside of me.”

Neal felt the warm explosion immediately.

Jorge collapsed to the ground next to him. “Wooo,” he exhaled. Laughter emerged after. He took a deep breath. Neal knew to roll over and lay his head on Jorge’s chest, so he did. “That was amazing baby,” he said, wrapping his arm around Neal. He ran his hand over Neal’s arm, stroking it gently. “Did you finish?”

Neal didn’t respond. Jorge’s fingers clasped around his wrist. Each second he didn’t respond, the tighter it became. “Of course,” Neal said softly. The grip loosened and the gentle stokes resumed. 

“Well, I think it’s time for bed. I have an important meeting tomorrow,” Jorge said, standing up.

Neal lifted his pants up, and brought himself to a sitting position. 

As Jorge was buttoning up his shirt, Neal could feel his eyes on him, surveying every inch. “You’re getting a little too thin, Neal. I can see every bone in your back. I want you to eat more. Just tell me what you want from the grocery store. Anything my baby wants, my baby gets.”

Neal said nothing. He felt a migraine coming on, an effect of whatever he was forced to drink earlier. 

“C’mon, get up,” Jorge said. 

Neal counted to three and slowly started to move. One minute turned into two. Jorge grew impatient by the third and roughly put his arm underneath Neal’s, lifting him up. “Move it. Don’t ruin that beautiful moment we just shared.” Jorge dragged him to the other end of the room, where the steel pipe was. He dropped him to the floor and clasped the chain around his wrist. 

“Are you ever going to let me go?” Neal asked in soft tone. 

“Why would I ever let you go? We’re in love.”

Neal stared at the floor. His eyelids grew heavier. His fingers ran across the chain around his wrist. 

“Right, Neal?” he asked again, he tone a little bit more stern. 

“Right, Jorge.”

“Good night, baby.”

“Good night.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Isn’t this nice?” Jorge asked, placing his hand on Neal’s thigh. 

Neal tensed slightly. He stared straight ahead, pretending to focus on the television. 

“What the matter, honey? You don’t like it?” he asked, nodding towards the half-eaten slice of pizza on the coffee table. 

No, he didn’t like it. He didn’t like the hand on his thigh. He didn’t like sitting in this living room, on a couch, on a Wednesday night, eating pizza, and watching a movie—like everything was perfectly fine. He didn’t like the chains bounding his ankles together. He didn’t like the way he had to manipulate his breathing so his broken ribs wouldn’t break anymore. And he certainly didn’t like how his captor thought he we doing something ‘nice’ for his ‘boyfriend’.

“It’s fine,” he forced. 

Jorge traced over the fading bruise underneath Neal’s left eye with his thumb. “I’d really appreciate it if you made an effort to eat more. You’re starting to look sickly.”

Neal bit the bottom of his lip, trying so hard not to respond. He glanced at the screen. He couldn’t make out any of the faces. It was blurry. Always blurry. He glanced at the table, trying to make out the shapes. 

“Could we…have some wine?”

Jorge raise his eyebrow in utter surprise. “Really?”

“Well, you know…I…I just thought…maybe…maybe it could be romantic.”

A smile spread from ear to ear on his captor’s face. “Red or white?”

“You know I always love a good red.”

“I have a great bottle down in the basement. I’ll be right back.”

Neal knew exactly where the wine was down there. And that was really the most important part of this whole thing. 

Jorge stood up. He took a few steps and then suddenly paused. 

Shit, Neal thought. 

Jorge retreated and bent over. “I knew you’d come around, Neal,” he said, as he leaned in and kissed him on the lips.

Neal breathed. And then he waited. He waited until he heard the creak the 3rd step the basement stair always made whenever any weight was applied onto it. He held his breath as he leaned forward and grabbed Jorge’s cellphone. Did he realize it was there, left unattended? Neal didn’t care. This was his chance. He put in the four-digit code Jorge did not think he knew. He went to messages and created a new one. He put in the number he said over and over at night, so he wouldn’t forget it, just for when an opportunity such as this would ever present itself. 

“705 dockery. ny. BL dor, Strens bnkre. DNOT reply. NC.”

Neal hit send. He knew he typed too fast, but he was playing with his life doing what he just did. And if the man who received was the man Neal thought he was, then that was more than enough information. He deleted the message in the inbox, shut off the screen, and placed it exactly where it was. 

15 seconds later, he heard the creak from the 3rd step. 

“You’re going to love this blend, Neal.”

Neal smiled. It was not forced.


	4. Chapter 4

“You want to grab some dinner, Peter?”

He looked up from his phone. Jones was at the door.

“It’s well past 8. I know when Elizabeth is out of town, you forget to eat. You must be hungry.”

“I…umm…I’m sorry, what?”

Jones sighed. Peter had been, well, for lack of better words, a mess. It had been around 9 months since Neal…well, disappeared. Did he run? Possibly, or was it something else? Something no one wanted to say? The first month, Peter acted pissed. “How could he just run like that?” He would ask himself, but it was always out loud. “I told him I was going to get it sorted out with Bruce. He never has any faith.” But then the little guy, Mozzie, showed up—and he kept pestering them. “It’s a ploy,” Peter would say. “Neal sent Mozzie in here to think he didn’t run away.” But month after month, Mozzie would show up, asking if he had heard from Neal. Peter couldn’t figure that out. Surely Mozzie would have left town after a month or two, to meet up with Neal. The uneasiness formed in Peter’s face after Mozzie would leave was undeniable, and it grew more prominent each month.

“I’d say it’s time to stop for the night,” Jones said.

“I uh… I just received a very strange message.”

“What was it?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t know.” He slid his cell phone across the desk.

“Who’s it from?” Jones asked, picking it up.

“I don’t know. This contact isn’t in my phone book.”

“Want to call it?”

Peter shook his head. “It said not to.”

“Where?”

“DNOT reply.”

“Do not reply. Okay….”

“Jesus Christ, Jones. This is from Neal!” Peter said, looking up from his phone. “Look…the last two letters. NC. Neal Caffrey.”

“Boss, listen—”

“This is from him. I know it.”

Jones nodded. He had only seen Peter this serious once, and that was when Adler had kidnapped Elizabeth. “I’ll call Diana.”

“Have her call Mozzie. Bring him in cuffs if she has too. If anyone is good at solving puzzles, it’s him.”

45 minutes later, Peter and Jones were in the conference room. They had on the projection screen a blown-up version of the text, along with the phone number.

“I just want to say for the record, I did not know that was a back-alley game.”

“I don’t want to hear it Mozzie,” Diana said.

“Well I invoke my 5th Amendment right going forward. You have nothing but circumstantial evidence.”

“I need your help,” Peter said.

Mozzie stopped fidgeting. He saw the seriousness in Peter’s eyes. Jones unlocked Mozzie’s cuffs. The four of them sat down.

“I got this text about an hour ago. Jones and I ran the number—it’s a burner phone—doesn’t belong to anyone. We were able to track down the sim card that belongs to it, and traced it back to its origin of where it was purchased. Oswego, NY.”

“Why do you need my help? Seems like you got it figured out.”

“This message came from Neal. I need your help decoding it. I believe you Mozzie. Someone took him. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

“NC are his initials,” Diana said.

“Neal Caffrey,” Mozzie said.

Peter nodded.

“There’s misspellings here. Neal had to write this very quickly.”

“From a phone that’s not his,” Diana said. “And whosever phone it is, Neal doesn’t want them to know he used it.”

“That’s why I didn’t reply,” Peter said.

“There are clues in here,” Mozzie said. “Clues how to find him.”

“Dockery,” Jones said.

“Could be a street,” Diana said.

Jones typed into his laptop. “There are 376 streets in New York that have the word ‘Dockery in it.”

“Sterns,” Mozzie said.

“The investment firm,” Peter said. “Yes.”

“The person who took Neal is an investment banker with Sterns Financial.”

Peter felt his heart racing. “I think we have enough to really narrow it down. Jones, get a list of every single employee who works at Sterns Financial.”

“They have about 50,000 employees worldwide.”

“I don’t care, and get me their addresses—not just home address, but vacation homes, investment properties.”

“Peter, that could take weeks,” Diana said. “Bruce said we can’t spend any more time or money on Neal.”

“Are you suggesting we stop?”

“Absolutely not. I’m saying we have to be very careful until we have something concrete.”

Peter nodded. “Okay, you’re right.”

“I’ll put the word out on my side of the street,” Mozzie said, standing up.

“Goddamit,” Peter whispered under breath. This was becoming very real. Had he tricked his mind into believing Neal had ran? Yes. That was a much better alternative to the reality. “Hang on Neal, we’re on our way.”


	5. Chapter 5

Neal hissed as the flesh of his hip ripped as it was tugged over the nail. Jorge ignored him as he huffed and puffed, dragging his captive by the arm, and across the basement floor. By the time he dropped it, the pins and needles settled. 

“You really did it this time,” Jorge spat. 

Neal blinked several times, trying to push through the drugs still in his veins from the night before. 

The round sole of Jorge’s shoe, swiftly inserted itself in between Neal’s 6th and 7th vertebrae, jolting him to roll onto his back. He struggled for that first breath. It was a dangerous game not to disturb the broken ribs. Short and succinct. 

Again, the round sole of Jorge’s shoe wedged again, this time in between Neal’s 3rd and 4th rib on his left side. Jorge pressed down slowly, testing Neal’s endurance with each pound of pressure applied.

So fucking slow.

When ninety percent of it landed, Neal lost the game and let out a scream.

Jorge was swift, swooping down and wrapping his hand around Neal’s neck while using his knee to pin down his arm. Right in the meaty part of the inside of the elbow. 

He slapped Neal across his right cheek so hard the scab opened and started to bleed. 

His hand lay flat on his chest. He scrunched it into a fist, grabbing Neal’s shirt and yanking him off the ground and shoving him against the brick wall. Neal did not sway—his grip was that tight. His forearm went under Neal’s chin, forcing him to look at him. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t figure out what you did,” he gritted through his yellow stained teeth. 

Neal’s arms swayed and lifted them to his hips. It was a small movement, but far more triumphant than anyone would know. “Fuck you.”

Jorge pulled his arm away and immediately his knuckles curled, forming a fist. He punched Neal square in the stomach—so hard that he didn’t even try to gasp for air. Jorge’s other hand landed on Neal’s right shoulder, his thumb pressing against his collar bone and thus pinning him back to the wall. 

“What did you say,” Jorge said. He was foaming at the mouth. His eyes were red. Beads of sweat covered his forehead. “Say it again,” he sneered. “I know you want to.”

He waited for Neal to catch his breathe, he knows he was. He knew the parameters of this game. They stared at each other. His angry, hate filled eyes, looking into Neal’s swollen ones. Neal wanted to scream ‘FUCK YOU’ at him again. He really did. Instead a surge of helplessness washed over him, as it had all those other times—and he retreated. 

“Stop,” Neal pleaded. “Please.”

The corner of Jorge’s mouth curled, just a smidge. The smile on his smug lips was forming. 

Neal hated him so much. “Let me go,” he whispered.

Jorge came for his nose, and residually the back of Neal’s head slammed into the wall. The blood gushed this time. Neal was mostly upright as he got the last lick in: a smooth, swift, large open palm against his right cheek. Neal slumped to the floor. 

“As you wish!” Jorge bellowed. A terrifying laugh followed. 

There was more contact with the sole of his shoe, this time finding its way to Neal’s stomach. 

He was so fucking angry today. 

“Send any text messages lately, Neal?”

More kicks came to his back. Neal mustered every ounce of energy and curled his legs and brought his hands to be head, trying to shield himself the best he could. 

“You didn’t know that I get copies of every single text message emailed to me along with my bill, did you?” Another kick. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have acted so goddamn stupidly.” Another kick.

“Even if I did, I would have done it. A thousand times again!” Neal screamed. Blood dribbled out of his mouth and onto the floor, forming a pool of blood. 

“Why? Why did you do that?” Jorge screamed, bending down and grabbing Neal’s hair. He slammed his face into the ground. “What? I don’t treat you good? Is that it?? I open up my home to you, bathe you, clothe you, feed you?? And this is the thanks I get?!”

Another kick to the stomach. Another one, and another one. 

“You kidnapped me! You have me chained to this goddamn pole! You starve me, you beat me, and you rape every time! It’s always rape! Don’t you get that!?!?!” Neal screamed. His voice was hoarse. Blood was dripping down his nose and mouth. He felt his left eye swelling shut. His stomach and ribs felt like they were on fire. 

Jorge stood over him, catching his breath. And then he started to chuckle. 

Neal locked eyes with him in absolute petrification. 

“That is so goddamn rich,” Jorge said. The chuckles grew into laughter. Long strides of ‘HAHAHA’. “What you and I have Neal, I thought it was so special. I guess you just can’t see that. So, I guess our time together is done.”

Neal tried to inch away. He knew what Jorge meant. He wasn’t a religious person, he never had been, but he whispered under his breath, “Hail Mary, full of Grace—”

He didn’t get any further. Jorge had straddled him, and sat down on his stomach. Neal gasped as the air left his body and a new wave of pain exploded. Jorge’s big hands wrapped again around his neck. He squeezed—hard.

Neal grabbed for Jorge’s wrists and tried with every ounce of energy he didn’t know he had, to yank them away. He kicked his knees up, hoping it would do something. 

Jorge’s red angry eyes stared deep into him. Tears lefts Neal’s. 

“I’m sorry,” Neal whispered. “Please, Jorge, stop,” he pleaded. It was the only hand he had left.


	6. Chapter 6

Jorge dug his fingers deeper into the flesh. Bead of sweat dripped down his temple. His anger was growing by the second, like flames growing on gasoline infused branches. Neal’s hands covered his, desperation laced within them as he tried to remove them from his neck. Tears slid from the outer corner of his eyes. His mouth was parted, but no sound came.

“Goddamit,” Jorge whispered, abruptly letting go.

Neal gasped for air. He rolled onto his side, as a small coughing fit ensued. Heavy inhales and exhales followed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Jorge.”

“Fuck!” he screamed in frustration as he kicked Neal in his back. And another kick. And another.

When he stopped, Jorge stood there, breathing heavily; the sobs then came from Neal’s lips. They were loud, drawn out, long. The tears flowed. He wanted to be anywhere but here. He wanted to go home.

“Stop it,” Jorge commanded. His tone was filled with the utmost disgust.

The sobs grew louder, wheezes in between each one.

Jorge bent down, placing his hand on Neal’s shoulder, rolling him onto his back. “If you don’t shut the fuck up, I will actually kill you,” he sneered.

Neal’s lips closed. The sobs stopped, but his tears continued to fall. If Jorge were to tell him to stop those, he would be dead.

Jorge sighed, caving. He placed his thumb underneath Neal’s left eye and wiped away the salt water. He reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief. “This didn’t have to happen,” he said in a soft tone as he wiped some of the blood from underneath Neal’s nose. “You brought this on yourself, you know that, right?”

“I’m sorry,” Neal whispered.

Jorge nodded. “I know you are. Now, who did you text?”

Silence.

“Neal,” he said more sternly. “Who did you message?”

“I don’t know. It was a random number.”

“You don’t really think I believe you, do you?”

Silence.

“It’s not like it did anything. You sent it three weeks ago. No response," he said, cupping his hand around Neal’s jaw. “After everything I’ve done for you. You don’t appreciate a damn thing.”

“I do appreciate it,” Neal said. He had to say this. He had to keep Jorge calm.

“You sure have a funny way of showing it.”

“I miss my old life.”

“Your life is with me now. And the sooner you accept that, the better it will be for you--for us.” Jorge said, running his fingers through Neal’s hair. “You are such a mess. I’ll get a warm rag and clean you up. Give me your wrist.”

Neal tried not to groan as he lifted his arm. It was definitely broken. He bit his lip as Jorge placed the chain around his wrist.

As soon as he heard the creak of the 3rd step, a fresh set of tears emerged.

He was alone.

Peter wasn’t coming.


	7. Chapter 7

“Agent Burke, I repeat, the door of 705 Dockery is white, not blue,” Agent Feld said.

Peter closed his eyes. “Roger that,” he said into his cell phone. “Look around. I want to know who is in the house, who the neighbors are, any suspicious activity—the usual.”

That was the seventh Dockery Avenue his team had investigated. After weeks of pouring over the mountains of information, and some serious convincing from his superiors, he and his small team had narrowed a few things down. They cross referenced all the employees at Sterns Investment. Eight of them owned properties with the name ‘Dockery’ in it.

“Another half hour, Peter,” Jones said as he switched lanes. Peter, Jones, Diana, and two other field agents were all in the van. They had been driving for over an hour. When they did eventually turn onto the exit, Peter peered out the window. It was all green. House after house. Picket fences. Idyllic suburbia.

Was hell here too?

Peter held his breath as they turned onto Dockery Avenue. It was a very small street. Only two houses, one across from the other were on it. Jones stopped right in front of 705. It was a bi-level, with a fenced yard.

The door was blue.

Peter exited the door before the van even came to a complete stop. “This could be it. Hold your positions until I say so.”

He knocked three times. He kept his hand on his holster.

The door opened. A young woman appeared before him. Her blonde hair was in a ponytail. She was wearing sweats and tank top. A baby was in her arms, resting its face against her shoulder. Two toddlers appeared in the background. The little girl appeared to be chasing her little brother. Both were screaming in delight.

“Benjamin! Jillian! Do not run inside this house!” the woman screamed. She turned back towards Peter. “Sorry, can I help you?”

The disappointed was etched in his face, he could just feel it. The pit in his stomach grew. “Hi, my name is—”

“Look, I’m really not interested in anything your selling.”

“Ma’am, I’m not a salesman. I’m with the F.B.I,” he said, pulling out his badge.

She peered down. “Okay, what’s this regarding?”

“Can you confirm all the members of this household for me, please.”

“What is this regarding?” she asked again.

“A missing person.”

“It’s just me and my three kids. That’s it.”

“Husband? Wife?”

“No, it’s just me. My husband died last year. Car accident.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It certainly can’t be easy raising these kids on your own.”

“It’s certainly isn’t.”

“Do you mind if I take brief look inside?” he asked.

She moved to the side of the door, allowing for his entry. “Go ahead.”

He stepped inside. The house displayed exactly what a house with three kids under the age of 10 would look like. Toys sprawled out on the floor, cartoons playing in the background.

“How many floors?” he asked.

“This level, and there’s a basement.”

“I’ll need to look down there.”

“Whatever you need.”

The rest of the survey of the house took no more than 10 minutes. Neal wasn’t there. This house was occupied by this woman and her three little kids. Nothing more, nothing less. The anxiety in Peter’s bones grew by the minute. Where the hell was Neal?

“What can you tell me about your neighbors?” he asked as he stepped towards the front door. The investigation of this house was ending.

“Not much. I don’t interact with anyone around here really. These kids keep me pretty busy.” She paused. “Is it not safe here?” 

Peter forced a smile. “Everything is fine. We’re investigating a few different areas.”

She nodded. “I hope you find who you’re looking for.”

“Thank you.”

Peter heard the door close behind him. He sighed. That was it—the end of the road. The FBI would not expend anymore man power or time towards this.

“Anything boss?” Diana asked. Her voice came in loud and clear on the walk-talkie.

He stared ahead, in a daze.

“Peter?” Diane asked again.

He stared at the house across the street, similar looking to the one he was currently in front of. His feet started to move.

“Peter, where are you going?” Diane asked.

“Hold your positions,” he answered. Had Neal looked out the window of this house? Saw the blue door across the street? Saw 705 on it?

He knocked three times. He waited. Nothing He raised his hand to knock again. The door opened.

A middle-aged man opened the door. He was wearing dark pants and a maroon sweater. He was roughly the same height as Peter, but much better built. It was evident he worked out with weights. He had dark brown hair, though it was thinning a bit. He seemed a little out of breathe. “Yea?”

“Uh...hi, my name is--”

“Not interested in whatever your selling, buddy,” the man said as he started to close the door.

“Uh…no I’m not selling anything. I live across the street actually.”

The man burrowed his brow. “I thought a woman and some kids lived there.”

Peter forced a chuckle. “Yes, Julie does live there with her kids. We’re together. I just moved in with her.”

The man smiled, but Peter, a scary judge of talent, could tell it was forced. “Well it’s always nice to know your neighbors. Welcome.”

“Thank you,” he said, extending his hand. “My name is Peter.”

The man extended his. “Jorge.”


	8. Chapter 8

“You know, I couldn’t help but notice the condition of your lawn. It’s really well kept.”

Jorge smiled. “Well, I try. You know, Peter, I’m actually in the middle of something—”

“Could I trouble you to use your bathroom?” Peter started fidgeting. “I know it’s an imposition, but the kids—well little Ben had an accident and it’s just a real mess over there.”

“Well, I—”

“I mean you wouldn’t believe the smell. You know what it smells like in there? It smells just—"

Jorge put his hand up. “Yea, fine, c’mon in.”

“Real nice place you got here, Jorge,” Peter said, walking through the foray. 

“Thanks. Like I said, I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“Sure, I get it,” Peter said, walking down the small hallway. It seemed like your typical bi-level. It was furnished, decorated. It was also quiet. 

“Bathroom is on the right,” Jorge said.

Peter nodded as he continued down the hallway. He saw a door on his left and purposefully put his hand on it. 

“No,” Jorge said. Peter noticed his voice went slightly up—the tone one uses when panic starts to set it. “I said on the right.”

Peter turned around and smiled. “My mistake.” He took a few more steps towards the correct door, feeling the footsteps of the man behind him. He closed the door. This was it. Neal was in this house. He had no proof—but he had the feeling in his gut. 

Peter instinctively looked for clues. He checked behind the shower curtain. He looked underneath the sink. He looked inside the medicine cabinet. There was nothing in it but three bottles of Nyquil. Strange., he thought.

After he flushed the toilet and let the sink run for a few seconds, he exited the bathroom and of course, just as he expected, Jorge was waiting. He stood in front of the door Peter had mistaken for the bathroom moments earlier, as if her were protecting it.

Was this it? Was he closer to Neal than ever before?

“So how long have you lived here?” Peter asked. 

“About a year.”

Peter nodded, but shuddered on the inside. Neal had been missing for close to ten months now. Had he been here this long? 

“Could I trouble you for a beer?” Peter asked. “I know you said you were busy, but I really just needed to get out of that house for a few minutes. I figure I’d take this as an opportunity to meet my neighbor. And boy, I’m so glad there’s another guy my age around this area.”

Jorge stared at him. Peter could see him starting to sweat. He wanted him out, but he didn’t want to raise suspicion. “Sure. I can hang for a minute or two.” 

Peter followed him the few short steps towards the kitchen. Jorge opened the refrigerator and took out two glass bottles of beer. He handed one to Peter and then walked around the kitchen island. He opened a drawer. “I know I have an opener around here somewhere.”

That’s when Peter saw it. The tip of what appeared to be a handkerchief sticking out of his back packet. There were spots of red on it. Was it enough? Peter didn’t’ know, but it had to be. He placed the beer on the island. He reached for his gun, hiding in the waistband of his pants. “Hey Jorge,” he said.

“It’s in one of these drawers, I promise.”

Peter pulled out his gun. He proceeded to raise it to eye-level, but somehow, it was as if Jorge has eyes in the back of his head, and he spun around, and lunged. He bumped into Peter so hard that his gun went flying across the beige tiled floor. 

Peter stumbled but did not fall. Jorge charged at him, pushing him into the back of fridge. “You don’t live across the street,” Jorge sneered. “I know exactly who lives there. I know Karen’s husband died. I know Stern’s Financial, where he used to work, still pay her his pension. That’s why she hasn’t moved. I also know, I’ve never seen you here before, and I surveillance the shit out of this block. So who the fuck are you?!”

Peter stared at this man before him. This angry, deranged man. Sweat dripped down his face. His grip was tight, Peter could barely breath. “I know he’s here,” he sneered back. His venom for this garbage was growing by the second. 

Jorge pushed him harder against the fridge. “I think you knocked on the wrong door.”

Peter shook his head. “No, I don’t think I did.” He raised his arms and grabbed Jorge’s, twisting them outward, a trick he learned at Quantico. Jorge screamed and fell to his knees. Peter pushed him to the ground onto his stomach. It took every ounce of energy to keep him still while reaching for his cuffs. 

Jorge squirmed, and in one brief motion, turned onto his back. He formed a fist and shot it straight up. It hit Peter right in his nose, sending him onto his back and stars into his eyesight. He heard the shuffle of feet and then he felt a breeze. He finally opened his eyes, and saw the front door was wide open. Peter reached for his walkie talkie. “Diana, get him!”

“Jones already has him on the ground in cuffs,” she said. “I’m coming inside.”

“Careful, I don’t know who else is here.”

“Copy that,” she said. 

Peter grabbed the island to pull himself up off the floor. He saw a roll of paper towels and grabbed one, bringing it to his nose, which was gushing blood. 

“You okay, boss?” Diana asked. Her gun was drawn. 

“I’m fine,” Peter said, pinching the bridge of his noise. “Neal is here, I know it.”

She nodded. “I’ll go check upstairs.”

Peter nodded. “I’ll go downstairs.”


	9. Chapter 9

Peter removed the paper towel from his nose. Blood was no longer gushing from it, but he could feel the liquid dripping down slowly. He sniffled it back, felt the metallic taste in the back of his throat. He opened the basement door with one hand and kept his gun drawn with the other. He saw a light switch and flipped it.

He took a step down, and then another. The wood creaked on the third and he stopped in his tracks. He waited. He heard nothing.

He continued down. Seven more steps. When he reached the bottom, the smell hit him hard. It smelled of mold. And piss. And blood.

The gun holstered up in his hands shook. The cement wall to his left was covered in blood, huge spots of it. Some of the spots were brown—old, and some, particularly where one’s head may have been slammed against, were bright red.

“Neal?” It was a whisper, and he himself barely heard it. He took a breath, afraid. “Neal?” He said again, more loudly.

He heard metal move. He raised his gun higher, more alert. He continued to turn, this time to the right.

It was a body.

“Neal!” Peter yelled, running towards him. He put his gun back in between his waistband and knelt down. His knees instantly became warm, the cloth soaking up the blood.

Neal’s breathing was rapid yet shallow.

Peter placed his hand on his shoulder and he felt him tense up even more than he already was. “Jesus Christ,” Peter whispered, surveying the damage. He took off his jacket, placing it on the floor. He placed his hand on the back of Neal’s head. It was wet and warm. Blood. He placed his other hand on Neal’s chest, and as gently as he could, rolled him onto his back.

Tears filled Peter’s eyes. He just couldn’t help it. Neal’s right eye was swollen shut, and it was covered in black and blue. A deep red mark covered the skin underneath his left eye. There was dried blood, crusting both of the insides of his nostrils. Fresh blood was dripping slowly from his bottom lip. His neck was red; the bruises on it had already started to form.

His body was completely emaciated from what he could tell. His cheekbones were extremely prominent. The gray t-shirt, which had dark red stains in various spots, hung on his frame, as did the jeans. His arms were stick figure like. No muscle, no definition. He was all bones.

His eyes were shut tight. His body shivered in fright.

“Neal,” Peter said. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Neal, it’s Peter. You’re safe.”

His eyelid lifted slowly, as if he was certain he was having a dream and this very action would abruptly end his fantasy.

He blinked a few times, very slowly.

“This is real,” Peter said.

“Is he dead?” he asked. His teeth were covered in blood.

Peter’s lips parted. “He’s in cust—”

“Please tell me he’s dead,” Neal whispered through a wheeze.

“Neal, the paramedics--”

His eyes were crystal clear. He grabbed Peter’s hand, covering it with his blood, and squeezed it with every ounce of energy he had. “Shoot him, Peter. Shoot him dead.”

Peter didn’t know what to say. He wanted to tell Neal this man was dead, more than anything in that moment. “Neal, you’re in shock—”

“No!” he yelled. He grabbed Peter’s shirt, bunching it up in a ball in the middle of his chest. He lifted his body as much he could. Tears streamed down his face, smearing the blood on it around further. He was manic and calm at the same time. He said the next four words with such firmness that there was no doubt in Peter’s mind that they were absolutely true. “He deserves to die.”

A fresh set a of tears filled Peter’s eyes. He stared at the blood, the bruises, the destruction. “I know.”

Neal let go and slumped back to the floor. He wheezed again, in and out, in and out. Sobs emerged, silent ones, and then the volume grew-louder, and louder, until he was wailing and the entire sickening noise filled the basement, echoing off the walls. Perhaps it was from the pain, perhaps it was from the release—the realization he had been found and was to be set free after so many long months. “Get…get…get me out of here,” he managed in between sobs.

“Okay,” Peter said, nodding. He reached for his walkie talkie. “Jones, I need paramedics here immediately.”

“Already called for one, it should be here in a few minutes.”

“Call them again. Tell them to ignore every speed limit. I mean it!”

Jones was silent for a few seconds. “Okay.”

Neal rolled back onto his side and hoisted himself into a sitting position. His back was against the wall and he brought his knees to his chest. He wheezed, over and over again, closing his eyes in obvious pain. He could not catch his breath, but somehow, he managed to scream again. “Get me out of here now!!!”

“Jones, I need you to check the scumbag’s pocket for keys,” Peter said into his walkie talkie. He had to get this chain off of Neal’s wrist. It was the only thing he could do at this point to help him achieve his request.

The sobs continued, as if he couldn’t stop. He buried his face in between his knees, a calming mechanism he had utilized before to stop himself.

“I got them,” Jones said.

“Bring them to me, only you. And bring me a blanket if we have one in the van.”

As he waited for Jones, he could do nothing but stare at Neal. He had ‘saved’ him, but looking at the man before him, huddled, broken, chained, bloodied, sick as ever, he wasn’t sure that he had. In all honesty, he felt helpless. He wanted to hold him, hug him, soothe him. He sat down, next to him, as slowly as he could, right against the wall. He lifted his arm, and again, as gently as he could, placed it around Neal’s shoulder. He felt Neal tense, just for a second, and then he untensed.

“It’s alright,” Peter soothed. He knew it wasn’t.

“Peter?” Jones said. He had appeared, as if magic. Peter was so transfixed; he hadn’t heard the creak in the floorboard. Jones had his gaze on Neal, at a loss. “There were no blankets.”

Peter nodded and reached for the keys. There were only two brass ones on the ring. “Try not to look, Jones. For your own sanity.”

“Neal, I’m going to take the chain off your wrist, okay?”

But Neal wasn’t really listening. He didn’t even really know if this was real. But he felt a hand take his, and felt pressure applied to it, and then he felt the metal release. Cool air hit the area. It stung. There was no skin on it.

“Shit,” Peter said under his breathe. Bloody scabs, closed, reopened. He dropped the chain to the ground.

“Get me out of here,” Neal said again. This time it was in a softer tone.

“The paramedics will be here in a few minutes.”

Neal shook his head. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood smeared along it. “No, I can’t wait. Please don’t make me wait a second longer in this house.”

“I want to Neal, I really do, but something might be broken and I don’t want you to aggravate anything further.”

“I don’t care,” he said, grabbing the wall for support. He made it up, but then immediately his knees shook, and he wobbled. He leaned against the wall, moving his weight from leg to leg. He bit his bottom lip.

Peter put his arm around his waist, and immediately Neal allowed all of his weight to rest on him. Peter cringed. He could feel the sharp angles of Neal’s hipbone jutting against his palm. He couldn’t feel the indentations of his ribs. “Please, Neal, just wait a minute or two.”

Neal stared at the floor, ashamed. Why? He didn’t know—that’s just how he felt. He slumped the rest of his weight into Peter’s arm that were holding him upright. He felt dizzy, he felt nauseas. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he whispered.

“Jones, get me some water. And find out where that damn ambulance is!”

“You got it, Peter.”

“I’m going to lower you to the floor, Neal.”

Neal had no reaction. He felt his bottom hit the cold cement. He prayed this truly would be last time he would sit on it.


	10. Chapter 10

His pulse is tacky,” Laura, the female half of the paramedic duo said. She was in her mid-twenties, with strawberry blonde hair tied back in a tight bun.

“I think both lungs are collapsed,” Michael, the other medic said, swinging the stethoscope around his neck.” He was a larger fellow, with balding brown hair and a bushy beard.

“That’s why I’m giving him oxygen,” Laura retorted as she placed an oxygen mask over Neal’s mouth and nose. “The sooner we get him to the hospital, the better.”

“His arm is definitely is dislocated.”

“I can’t open his left eye,” Michael said, putting his flashlight pen back in his shirt pocket. “But his right one is dilated.”

“Neal, do you know what kind of drugs you were given?” Laura asked.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “A lot…all the time. Tastes like….rotten cherries.”

“Try not to move your head, sweetie.”

“I can’t give him anything for the pain,” Michael said.

“Why?” Peter asked. His voice was filled with fear and desperation.

Michael shook his head as he took out a neck brace. “I don’t know what’s in his system, and I don’t want an adverse reaction. The best I can do is give him a saline drip to help rehydrate him.”

“We’ll have to do it in the bus, he needs to get the hospital now. His BP is falling,” Laura said. “I think he has internal bleeding.”

“Jesus Christ,” Peter whispered.

“Neal, buddy, were going to roll you onto the backboard, okay?” Michael said. He looked up at Laura. “One, two, three.” Swiftly, they rolled Neal and slid the backboard underneath him.

Peter doesn’t remember walking up the steps, leaving hell. He doesn’t remember walking through the hallway of what was supposed to be your typical house; instead it was a torture chamber—and Peter would work very hard to make sure it was demolished at some point. He does however, remember the moment he stepped outside.

“Stop,” Neal whispered, raising his arm.

“We’ll have you at the hospital in no time,” Michael said.

Neal reached for his oxygen mask. He pulled it down. “Please.”

“Stop,” Peter commanded.

The paramedic duo stopped in their tracks. They looked at each other and then to Peter.

Peter approached the gurney. Neal looked worse in the sunlight. His pale skin, slicked with sweat. Every bruise shined. Every cut was glorified. All the blood glistened. “What is it, Neal?”

“I…I haven’t been outside in so long. I just want to feel the sun.”

“I have to get him into the ambulance,” Michael cut in.

“Well you’re going to wait one goddamn minute,” Peter answered.

There was no retort.

Neal kept his one eye open, staring at the blue sky. A tear leaked from his eye. There wasn’t a cloud in sight. He nodded slightly.

Peter nodded to the paramedics and they took that as their cue to move.

“We’ve called in the local police department. They’re sending over a car. They'll book him, and then he'll be released into our custody and we'll book him again in the City. We're not taking any chances. We're sticking him with every state and federal charge we can,” Diana said, approaching Peter from behind. 

“Good,” Peter said, turning towards the van. He couldn’t see the asshole, but he saw a pair of legs and sneakers by the curb. Jones was standing over him. “If he tries to run, and I mean if he sticks one toe out of line, shoot him dead.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Diana said. Her tone was fierce as ice.

“I’ll call with any updates,” Peter said, stepping into the ambulance.

The doors closed and the engine went on. The sirens went on almost immediately, and within five seconds, the ambulance was en-route.

Diana’s face scrunched up, and her knees buckled. She turned around, away from Jones, away from that monster in cuffs, and she cried.


	11. Chapter 11

“Agent Burke?”

Peter lifted his head and looked to his right. A man in a white lab coat, covering the blue scrubs underneath it, had appeared. He looked about Peter’s age, with dark blond hair slicked back.

“Is he alive?”

“Agent Burke, I’d like—”

Peter stood, the sinking in his stomach seemed to drop further down the more gravity intervened. “Is he alive?”

“He—”

“Just ‘yes’ or ‘no’!” Peter shouted. He didn’t mean to yell, but he had been sitting in the hallway for 45 minutes. Numerically, it didn’t seem like a long time, but it was an absolute eternity. The growing looks of fear the paramedics had in their eyes in the ambulance stayed with him the entire time the doctors and nurses at Greenwood Hospital took Neal into their care.

Dr. Carber remained silent, yet his stare did not falter from Peter’s eyeline. It was a mechanism he had developed over the years to calm the natural hysteria the was induced from loved ones.

Peter understood the request and took a deep breath through his nose. ”I’m sorry.”

Dr. Carber nodded. “Neal is alive.”

Peter closed his eyes and let out of breath, this time through his mouth. It was the smallest release of relief he had felt today, and today had lasted about 1,000 years.

“Paging Dr. Lerner. Paging Dr. Lerner,” the voice over the PA system said.

Dr. Carber nodded towards his left. “Let’s talk in here,” he said, grabbing the door handle.

Peter followed. He walked into an empty conference room. There was a long desk, and about 15 chairs around it. The wide windows overlooked the parking lot. The sun was just setting.

“Would you like to sit?” Dr. Carber asked.

“With all due respect, I’ve been sitting for 45 minutes. Please, tell me about Neal.”

“Agent Burke, I understand you have a medical proxy for Neal, and therefore I am legally allowed to share everything about his medical condition with you.”

“That’s correct.”

Dr. Carber didn’t respond right away. “I will tell you everything, but you don’t have to hear it if you don’t want to.”

“I . . . I don’t think I understand what you’re saying,” Peter said, shaking his head.

“It’s a lot. It’s going to be …overwhelming.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, with all due respect, Doctor, ‘hearing’ about his injuries, and actually enduring them, are two different things. I think it’s safe to say, Neal got the raw end of that deal.”

Dr. Carber nodded, and in that moment, he seemed to have aged 10 years. “He’ll need stitches on the back of his head. His left cheekbone is fractured. He’s got an orbital fracture as well—so he won’t be able to see out of this right eye for at least a month. We’ve taped it shut so he can’t open it, even if he wanted to—that’ll help with the healing. I do not think he will need surgery for it. His left eardrum is completely shattered. His larynx,” Dr Carber said, grabbing his own throat, “is extremely bruised. My guess is from a chokehold, which is consistent with the bruising on his neck.”

Peter took a deep breath.

“Shall I go on?” Dr. Carber asked.

Peter nodded, staring at the doctor’s brown loafers.

“He’s dehydrated, and to label him as ‘underweight’, would be an understatement. He is extremely malnourished. A man his height, build, and age, should weigh anywhere from 160-180. We haven’t weighed him yet, but we have been trained to eyeball people’s weight so we know how much medicine to administer. I’d say he is in the low 130’s. Maybe high 120’s. He will need a feeding tube for a few weeks. I doubt his system can tolerate any type of solids.”

Peter rubbed his forehead, trying to focus on hearing the information, instead of boiling up in anger.

“He’s got a broken collarbone. His right arm was dislocated, we popped it back into place, but his wrist on that arm is sprained, and two of his fingers on the left hand are broken. Both lungs are collapsed and he has a small case of pneumonia. Three of his ribs on the right side are broken, and four on the left are bruised. He has severe lacerations on his back and torso, some burn marks. We’ve disinfected and dressed them as best we could, same with the ones on his face.”

Peter breathed in and out, in and out. “Is that everything?”

Dr. Carber remained silent for a moment. “No.”

“Jesus,” Peter muttered.

“Neal has internal bleeding. I’m not a surgeon, but Dr. Romona, who is performing emergency surgery as we speak, is. I’m going to guess, and this is only an educated guess based on the ultrasound we did in the ER when Neal was brought it, that his spleen and appendix will be removed.”

“How are you performing surgery? The paramedic said he had drugs in his system and that other drugs couldn’t be administered.”

“We performed a tox screen, and based on what he we saw, we flushed as much of it out of his system as we could, as not to interfere with the anesthesia. I assure you, the anesthesiologist is monitoring him closely.”

“What drugs were in his system?” Peter asked, He kept his eyes on the window, looking out at the parking lot.

“Ambien, valium—pretty high doses of them, which leads me to believe he has developed a tolerance for them. And there was mivacuriam chloride in his system as well,” Dr. Carber said.

“What is that? Similar to ropholyn?”

Doctor Carber sighed. “It causes temporary paralysis for short periods of time, depending on the dosage of course. I don’t know what the long-term effects of it are, as it is highly dangerous to be used consistently over time. But Neal may experience memory loss, uncontrollable shakes, extreme bouts of dizziness.”

“What does it do?”

“Think of a coma, Agent Burke. You can’t move, you can’t speak—but you are awake the entire time.”

“Is there evidence of sexual assault?”

“I cannot say with certainty. His apparent injuries are what we were concerned with, and we had to get him into surgery ASAP. We will perform a rape kit as soon as he is in recovery. For now, we’re having his blood tested for sexually transmitted diseases, just in case. But…”

Peter closed his eyes. He bit his lip, willing himself not to cry. “But what?”

“When we removed Neal’s clothes, there were bruises on his thighs, hips, and buttocks, and as you are aware, that is consistent with sexual assault. There was … blood on his boxers.”

Peter turned and punched the wall. He broke through the plaster, leaving an indentation. “Fuck!” he screamed. He punched the wall again, and again, and again.

Doctor Carber waited until the Federal man regained his composure. It took a few minutes. He then reached into the pocket of his white lab coat. In his hand was a clear plastic bag, and in it contained polaroids. He handed the bag to Peter, face down. “We are required by law to take photographs of all assault victims. Every injury. For evidentiary purposes. We swabbed underneath his fingernails. We also have all of his clothes sealed in a bag.”

Peter took the bag and kept it at his side. He didn’t need to look at them right now. He couldn’t.

“Do you have the person who is responsible for this in custody, Agent Burke?”

Peter nodded.

Dr. Carber’s lips parted, as if hesitating. “Agent Burke, look, I’m not supposed to say what I’m going to say, but I will anyways. In all of my years of medicine…what I saw today, it can’t get worse than that. It just can’t. I’d shoot the son-of-a-bitch myself if I had the opportunity.”

Peter wiped the tears underneath his eyes. He willed himself to stop, but he just wasn’t able to.

“I’ll let the OR know you’re waiting to hear from them. I don’t know how long it will be.”

Peter nodded. “I’ll wait.”

And he would, as Neal had waited for him.


	12. Chapter 12

The room was beige. The floor, the walls--beige. Everything smelled of disinfectant and plastic. The curtains were drawn, but ready to pulled back at a moment’s notice. Just in case he woke up. He would want to see the sky, Peter was sure of it.

He was sitting in a chair, next to the bed. His elbows were propped onto his knees. His hands covering his eyes. He had been sitting like this more or less for two days. That was all he did. Sit and watch, sit and watch. Doctor Carber came in every few hours, routine checks. He would urge him to go to a hotel, get a proper eight hours of sleep, eat a proper meal. Peter’s nerves wouldn’t allow it. What was 48 hours of uncomfortableness compared to the hell the man in the bed had endured?

The rape kit came back and as Peter expected, but did not hope, there was confirmation of rape.

Dr. Carber told him Neal had woken up in recovery after the surgery, but was groggy and incoherent. It was only for a few minutes. Ever since, he had stirred every few hours. His eye would open once or twice, and then they would close, back into that deep, deep sleep he desperately needed.

Peter listened to the heart monitor. He had noticed sometimes the beeping increased for a few minutes, and then it would normalize. Dr. Carber assured him Neal was fine. His body was detoxing the valium and xanex. Of course they had kept him on a small dosage of it, as to not cause his heart too much distress after all he been through, but they had lowered the amount significantly.

His head popped up as he heard the beeping increase again. Neal’s forehead was covered in sweat. It had appeared on his throat and his neck. He heard Neal groan, just a small one. His lips were parted slightly, he could see underneath the oxygen mask. His head moved slightly from side to side.

_“You just don’t listen when I speak!” Jorge yelled, backhanding Neal across the cheek._

_The force was so strong, Neal went down to the ground, landing on his right arm. He heard something in his wrist snap upon impact. The pain he felt superseded the stinging emanating from his cheek._

_“Get up!” Jorge screamed. But he didn’t wait for Neal to oblige. He grabbed the collar of Neal’s shirt and yanked him upright. “Why do you have to make everything so goddamn difficult, Neal?” he asked, pushing him against the wall._

_Neal struggled to catch his breath, trying to not focus on the pain in his wrist. That was not going to happen. Jorge put his fingers around the seemingly broken wrist and squeezed. Neal gasped in utter pain. Tears fell from his eyes. “Stop,” he pleaded. “You’re hurting me.”_

_Jorge squeezed tighter. Neal bit his lip, hard—purposefully. Make the pain in my brain go somewhere else, he pleaded with himself. He tasted blood. It had worked. For five seconds. It was better than zero._

_“I’m hurting you?!!” Jorge screamed into his left ear. He let go of his grasp, sending Neal to the floor. He fell to his knees and leaned forward, his forehead almost touching the cold cement floor. He cradled his arm, trying to protect it from anymore injury._

_Neal felt the big hand on his neck. He felt it squeeze his skin, grasping a firm hold. He was hoisted up. He was pushed forward. His hip hit the edge of the wooden table. He felt Jorge’s hands wrap themselves around his waist. He felt his hands touching his stomach, then going down towards the button and zipper of his jeans._

_“Don’t fight me this time,” Jorge said into his ear. “Or I will show you just how hurt you can be.”_

_“My arm is really hurt, please, don’t do this,” Neal pleaded softly._

_Jorge ignored the request and continued to kiss Neal’s neck. “You want to be on your back or stomach?”_

_“I don’t want either,” Neal said as the tears continued to fall._

_Jorge turned him around, facing him. He kissed Neal on the lips as he unbuttoned his pants. He pushed Neal down on the table, keeping a firm hand on his neck. “Don’t cry.”_

_But Neal couldn’t help it. Jorge’s hand left his neck and his fingers grazed down his chest, then to his stomach, then both hands held onto his hips._

_“Breathe,” Jorge said as he entered him._

_Neal gasped. His stomach turned to knots when he heard Jorge moan._

_The table creaked as the thrusts came. Over and over and over again. Tears and sweat built over Neal’s face. He didn’t even know where the pain was coming from anymore._

_Jorge squeezed Neal’s hips harder. His left hand traveled upward, returning it to Neal’s neck, and then his hand traveled to his wrist. Jorge bent forward and placed his lips on Neal’s. “Kiss me back,” he panted, giving Neal’s injured wrist a light squeeze. It was enough pain to yield a response to the dirty request._

_Their lips locked, their tongues intertwined. Sloppy, wet, abrasive. The tears from Neal’s closed eyes continued to fall sideways down his face. He could feel them dripping onto his ear lobes._

_“Fuck!” Jorge screamed in extasy. He squeezed Neal’s wrist hard as he came. The table shook, almost in vibrations as continued his climax. Neal bit his lip so a fresh layer of blood filled his mouth, dripping down the back of this throat._

_Jorge opened his eyes. He pulled out, ignoring the small hiss from Neal. He pulled his pants up and buttoned them. He took two steps to the right of the table so he was next to Neal’s side. His eyes were squeezed shut. His right arm was on his chest, his left hand cradling it._

_Jorge reached into his back pocket and produced his handkerchief. He dabbed the tears on Neal’s face, and then patted his forehead to catch the sweat. He ran his fingers through his hair with his free hand while he did so. “You can open your eyes Neal, that wasn’t a dream.”_

Neal’s eyelid popped wide open. There was a man above him. He felt a cloth against his forehead. He felt the dabbing motions. He felt fingers in his hair. “It’s alright,” the man said softly.

His eye swelled with tears. No. No. No. His heart filled with dread. His stomach filled with knots.

“Neal?”

He closed his eye, feeling the wall of salt water fall onto his cheeks. He felt the hand leave his hair. He felt the cloth removed from his face. He felt the heat of the body above him retreat. He gasped for air. He felt something over his mouth though, it felt like plastic. Had Jorge finally had enough of his screams? He curled onto his side, ignoring the ever-present pain in his ribs. He wheezed, and then he let out an agonizing cry as more tears fell. “Let me go. Just let me go. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t go on much more like this.” He sobbed. “How can you do this to me, over and over, knowing how much it hurts??!” he screamed. More tears fell, they just wouldn’t stop.

“Oh Goddamit,” Peter whispered. He felt his knees quiver.

“Why do you still want me? Look how gross I am,” he sobbed.

Peter hit the button on the side of the bed. He needed Dr. Carber here. He wanted to touch Neal’s shoulder, or rub his back that was facing him. He wanted to put a blanket over him, cover the black and purple bruises, cover the outline of his spine. But he knew not to.

Neal continued to weep. As the seconds went on, his sobs became quieter…and then they were non-existent. He was still. There were no more tears. Had he fallen asleep again? No. This is just what he had learned to do over time.

“Neal. It’s Peter. We are in the hospital.”

Neal’s entire body went frigid. “Peter?” he whispered. He needed Peter to say something. He needed to hear that voice. He needed to hear that it was really him.

“It’s really me, Neal.”

Neal opened his eye. He saw the railing of the bed. He saw the beige wall. He saw his right arm was bandaged. He saw splints over some of his fingers. He saw an IV in his arm. He saw the beige blanket cover him. He lifted his hand, and touched what was over his mouth; an oxygen mask. He breathed in deep, and actually felt the air enter his lungs in a much smoother way than he had felt in months.

He touched his face, and his fingers traveled upward, touching the bandage over his eye.

He turned onto his back, ignoring the pain in his back and ribs. Peter stood next to him. His hand was on the railing. His face was covered in apprehension. He didn’t know what to do.

Neal leaned towards him and put his hand over his. His took his other hand and reached out, grabbing the older man by the waist.

Peter finally let out a breath of air as he put his own arms around Neal, gently, as to not disturb any of his injuries. He felt Neal shaking, and then he heard the sobs. He lifted his head a little when he saw a pair of sneakers by the door. Dr. Carber was standing there, taking in the scene. Peter lifted his hand, asking the man of medicine to stop and not interfere, at least for a few minutes. Dr. Carber nodded and retreated.

“It’s alright,” Peter said softly. His voice was shaking. He felt tears in his own eyes. “I’m so sorry, Neal. I’m so sorry. I should have looked for you sooner. I had no idea—”

“Don’t let me fall asleep again.”


	13. Chapter 13

“Do you want a different flavor?” Peter asked.

Neal’s eyelid shut, and as soon as it did, he opened it again. He was sitting in a wheelchair, by the window, a blanket was draped around his shoulders. The outside was a sight to see to him, even if it was only the parking lot. But there were cars, and people, and birds. He glanced sideways. Peter stood there, with a cup of coffee in one hand, and a folded newspaper in the other. His focus was on the tray of food, noting the toast with a small bite taken from the corner, and the container of cherry Jell-O next to it. The spoon was buried in it. A few bites had been taken.

Neal shook his head.

“You want to go back to the bed?”

Neal didn’t respond to that question—a reoccurring theme. He would answer somethings, and not others. His mind and thoughts would drift it seemed. Neal was entering week two of his hospital stay. The bruises on his face and body had lightened to a mural of blue, with swirls of purple, and a lot of yellow.

“What’s going to happen to me?” Neal asked finally. His gazed was still on the world past the window.

Peter cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”

“Do I still work for the FBI?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Neal nodded once, his eye closing for a brief two seconds. He was tired. “Will you sit with me?”

Peter nodded. “Of course.” He pulled up the wooden chair that was positioned by the bed.

“Sleep okay?” Neal asked.

“The hot water in the motel is still out, but I’ll live.”

Neal nodded, again, his eye closed at the movement. He pried it back open, as if his life depended on it.

“Why don’t you try and rest. Sleep a little.”

Neal, again, did not respond.

“Neal, you know you have to sleep a little more. Dr. Carber says you’re averaging three hours a day. That is not good for your recovery.”

“Can we go outside later?” he asked, ignoring his statement.

Peter sighed and readjusted the mask loop around his left ear. “Neal, we explained it to you already. Your immune system is too compromised at the moment. You are too prone to an infection.”

“I’ll wear all the sweaters and jackets you want me to.”

“Let’s wait a few more days, until you are just a little bit stronger.”

Neal bit his lip, trying to structure his response. “But if I do try and go outside, will you stop me?”

Peter, in turn, but his lip, and structured his response also in kind. “No.”

That’s all Neal needed to hear to remain unagitated. He COULD leave if he wanted to.

“I wish you would tal—”

“Where is Jorge?”

Peter instantly regretted his wish.

“Where is he?” he repeated.

“Riker’s.”

“Did they chain him to a metal pole?”

Peter ran his hand through his hair.

“Did he have his arraignment?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I don’t know anything else.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

Neal remained silent for a minute. “Perhaps the first lie you ever tell me shouldn’t be over something big like that.”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

Neal turned in his chair, wincing in pain as he did so, and looked Peter in the eyes. “Pro..protect me?” He glanced down at his body, at the bruises, at the bandages covering him. “I think we’re past that, don’t you?”

“Neal…”

He raised his hands, showing his palms. “Okay, fine. Protect me.”

“Hi Neal,” Dr. Carber said. He was standing at the door, a chart in his hand.

Neal didn’t respond. He was too tired.

Peter and the Doctor locked eyes. They had developed a language between themselves, and it was mostly through worried looks. Peter nodded his head towards the tray of food. Dr. Carber peered over Neal’s shoulder. He jotted down a line on his chart.

“How you doing today, Neal?” he asked, reaching for a pair of latex gloves.

Neal nodded. “Fine.” His voice was soft, and the answer almost sounded uncertain.

“I’d like to do a check-up if that’s okay?”

Neal’s body seemed to shrink, if that was even possible. His teeth slipped over his bottom lip. He bit down, suppressing the urge to say ‘no’.

“Peter is more than welcomed to stay in the room, and I have Gina, a nurse, on her way.”

Neal didn’t respond. He wanted to wrap the blanket around his shoulders even tighter. He wanted to run. He didn’t do any of that. He didn’t do anything.

“I need you to tell me it’s okay, and I need you to mean it, alright? I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”

Neal’s toes tapped the linoleum floor. He blinked again, tired as ever. He knew what Dr. Carber was doing.

“It won’t take long. I just want to make sure you aren’t developing any infections.”

Neal nodded. “Okay,” he whispered. He turned to Peter. “Don’t go.”

Peter nodded and gave a small smile. “I won’t.”

Dr. Carber wheeled the chair to the bed. Neal didn’t even attempt to move. Instead, he allowed Peter to hoist him up. By the time he was seated on his bed, a thin layer of sweat glistened over his forehead.

His gown was untied and he felt cool air hit his skin. He vaguely heard Dr. Carber say “I’m going to remove your gown’. Like that would erase the months of rape and assault he had endured. Like asking for his permission was going to undo all that had been done to him. He felt metal on his back, he heard the Doctor say to ‘breath in and out’. He felt the hands. He closed his eyes, willing himself to understand he was in reality.

_“Your skin is so smooth,” Jorge purred as his fingertips grazed each of his arms. They traveled slowly upwards until they clasped down around his shoulders. He was standing over his captive, who was sitting on the couch, almost naked. He had been stripped of nearly all his closing except for his boxers._

_Neal grimaced in disgust and tried to focus on the imagery of the television. He felt Jorge’s fingers race up his neck and run through his hair. The hand left his hand and traveled to his collarbone. It slipped down to his chest. Hot breath warmed his right ear, and then of course he felt teeth around the upper lobe. “I am going to fuck you so good tonight, Neal.”_

The toast and Jell-O came up rather violently. It splattered on the floor, onto his socks, onto Peter’s tan pants. His ribs burned and his back spasmed at the rather quick action. A metallic taste filled his mouth, and he felt it run down his throat—or perhaps it had lined his throat from the way up. But maybe that was the red Jell-O? Maybe that was Jorge’s hand on his back. Maybe he was standing behind him, naked, ready to fuck him against his will. Maybe he had been injected with a newer, stronger drug, and this was all a hallucination?

He couldn’t breathe. He really just couldn’t. He stood, in panic. Peter grabbed his arms, gently holding onto him, his fingers grazing his elbows. Neal shook his head. “No, I don’t want to.”

“Neal, everything is alright,” he tried to say.

“No,” he said, shaking his head at an almost violence pace. Tears were all over his face. “He’s going to rape me. He says he won’t, and then, and then he does. He drugs me. He sticks this big needle in my arm, and I can’t move, and he laughs, he laughs while he does it sometimes. And I’m laying there, crying. It’s mean. Don’t you see how mean that is?”

Dr. Carber and Peter exchanged extremely worried looks with one another.

“Neal, you are having a flashback. You are in the hospital.”

Neal looked feverishly around the room, but he kept shaking his head. He opened his mouth, but no words came. And then they did, “I . . . I . . . just…I just heard him. He’s coming back.”

Peter did not mean to grasp a firmer grip around Neal’s arm, but he did. “No, Neal, he’s in jail right now. You are in the hospital.”

“No!” he yelled, yanking his arms out of Peter’s grip. He stepped backwards. He was in the basement—the walls were covered with his blood. The floor was covered with his blood and piss. He heard the clank of the chain. He heard the creak from the third step.

The room was spinning again, it was dark and smelled of mold.

His knees buckled, this time completely, and once again, his cheek had met the coldness of the surface floor.


	14. Chapter 14

“How long will he be out for?” Peter asked. He was standing over the bed, watching Neal ‘sleep’. He had been tranquilized, so to speak. Peter was thankful Neal had passed out before Dr. Carber injected him. He could only imagine the fear he would have endured had he been awake. 

“A few hours,” Dr. Carber responded as he placed tape over Neal’s IV. “He needs the rest anyways.”

Peter nodded. And then just like that, he started to cry. Big, fat round tears cascaded down his face. They came quickly, one after the other as he looked at Neal, whose body had been ravaged by abuse and assault, and his mind which had been consumed by the same. The bruises, the emaciation, the sleeplessness. He was carved—all scooped out, just like a cantaloupe—all the sweetness and meatiness gone. 

Peter let out a sob, it was uncontrollable. He covered his face with his hands and continued to weep. He felt a hand wrap around is arm and his feet started to move. A few steps later, he was sitting in a chair, the same one he was a mere 20 minutes earlier. He composed himself after a minute. Dr. Carber was beside him, a box of tissues in his hand. Peter, now a little embarrassed, took one and blew his nose. 

“He’ll never be the same.”

“I can’t speak to that, Peter.”

“This is all my fault, you know that?”

Dr. Carber had been made aware of Neal’s criminal record, and his deal with the FBI, and why the federal agent, Peter Burke, was allowed to be borne with his patient’s private medical information. 

“You mentioned last week you thought he had run away. Because he didn’t think he would be released from the FBI.”

Peter wiped his eyes. “I sent him into a job, posing as an investment banker-it was a securities fraud case. In the middle of the sting, things went south. Neal said the code word and we moved in. By the time we got there, everyone in the room was gone.”

“And the man you have in custody, he was the person the FBI was investigating?”

Peter shook his head. “God no. If that was case, we probably would have found Neal in hours. What we’re piecing together is that the people we were investigating, at the time of the sting, passed Neal off to this Jorge guy. Jorge is known to make things go away. We’re learning he made about 10-15 people ‘go away’.”

“So Neal was to be murdered?”

“Yes,” Peter said softly as new tears emerged. “But he didn’t. Instead he …. well…you see.”

Dr. Carber nodded.

“I thought at the time that the right opportunity had just presented itself to Neal and he decided to run. We had no idea the people we were investigating knew someone like Jorge. We all thought it was a simple securities fraud case.”

“Peter, I see how much you care about Neal. I also know the FBI deals with some nasty stuff. Now I don’t know you that well, but I know in my heart of hearts, that you would never intentionally put Neal in that kind of danger. This is just one of those things. You didn’t know this was going to happen.”

“But that doesn’t change what happened,” Peter said, burying his head in his hands. “He is here, in this situation, ultimately, because of me.”

“You can play semantics all day Peter. If Neal had not been in FBI custody in the first place then he wouldn’t be in this situation, no? You just can’t play that game. It doesn’t do anyone any good.”

Peter sniffled back the remainder of his tears. “I suppose,” he said as his cell phone began to vibrate. “Hi Jones.”

“Peter.”

“What’s wrong?”

“He made bail.”

The world around him suddenly became a large vast of space. He couldn’t decipher time or gravity it seemed. His stomach rose to his chest. “Wh…what? What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know specifically who put up the bond, but I have a feeling it some of those investment bankers he’s connected to. Who else would put up the $2 million?”

“Goddamit, Jones,” he said quietly. He turned around, looking at Neal. ”How did this happen?”

“The system is just fucked. I’m going to put a few agents on him. Keep his whereabout known to us.”

“Thanks.” He hung up. Dr. Carber had left moments earlier he assumed. He looked at Neal again, still asleep, still, emaciated, still abused, still defeated. 

“Fuck.”


	15. Chapter 15

_“Look into the camera,” Jorge said._

_Neal was on his back. The light from the bedroom window was shining through the blinds. It hit his skin, polarizing the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and highlighting the light discoloration of purple around his eye._

_“Perk up, you look tired,” Jorge said._

_Neal’s facial expression did not change. It was clear there was a wall of tears in his eyes. They fell as his eyelids closed, in sync with Jorge’s hand being placed on his chest. It traveled down toward his stomach. His fingers toyed with the hem of his boxers._

_“God, you’re so beautiful,” Jorge said._

_“I don’t want to do this,” Neal said._

_Jorge lifted his eyes from the camera. He locked eyes with his prey. “Yes, you do.”_

_Neal shook his head. “No, I really don’t. Please, let me go.”_

_Jorge placed the camera on the bed. He was on his knees, next to Neal. He moved his hand slowly, traveling up his chest, and carefully placed it around Neal’s neck. His thumb, almost gracefully, was placed over Neal’s Adam’s apple._

_“Did you know, that if I apply just a little more pressure,” Jorge said, as he started to do just that, “that I can break your sternum?”_

_Neal didn’t answer._

_“Answer me,” Jorge said under his breathe._

_“No, I didn’t know that.”_

_Jorge caressed Neal’s face with his other hand. The two men had locked eyes. “I think you need more drugs.”_

_“I don’t like them.”_

_“Does that really concern me, Neal? You know that’s the only way I am going to take the chain off of you,” he said, reaching for the needle on the nightstand._

_Neal felt the small sting in his arm._

_Jorge picked up the camera. “I want to capture that beautiful smile.”_

_Neal’s eyes struggled to stay open. The little energy he had was being suppressed; drained. His stomach turned to knots as Jorge straddled his legs. He closed his eyes, the tears falling. He screamed, and boy did he do it loud. He felt Jorge’s hand cover his mouth. He kept his eyes closed, he didn’t want to open them, see the monster above him, let his fear be captured on that lense._

_Neal moved his head from side to side, trying to get the hand off of him. Eventually it left, and his cries filled the room as the rape continued._

Neal’s eye peeled open. He saw the fluorescent lights above him. Hospital, he reassured himself. His entire body was hot-drenched in sweat.

“P..Pet…Peter?” he whispered. His throat was dry, and his mouth felt like cotton balls were stuffed inside.

“He had to leave,” Dr. Carber said. He was sitting beside him. A chart was in his lap, and many more were on the table next to him.

Neal tried to clear his throat. “Does…Don…Don’t you have more important things to do? You must have a lot of patients.” It wasn’t a snide comment. It was really a question of curiosity.

“It’s a slow night,” he replied, reaching for the cup of ice. He placed it in Neal’s hand. “Peter didn’t want you to wake up alone…and neither did I.”

Neal chewed on a small piece. “I’m sorry…about before.”

“There’s absolutely nothing to be sorry about, Neal.”

Neal didn’t feel like arguing.

“Were you having a nightmare?”

Neal another piece of ice in his mouth. He let is settle underneath his tongue. “Yes.”

“About him?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Carber nodded. He didn’t know exact details. But based on what he had seen, he could only guess. And he guessed it wasn’t anything he could really imagine one human being doing to another.

“But…”

Dr Carber raised his brow. “What is it?”

“They’re not really dreams. It’s like…it’s like I’m standing in the corner, watching him do these things to me that really happened. . . I don’t know.”

Dr. Carber nodded. He wasn’t a psychiatrist. The only medical background he had with it was during one of his rotations many, many years earlier. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Neal eyed him a for a few seconds and then he diverted back to the ice chips. “Not really.”

“Okay,” Dr. Carber said. “Look Neal, you are going to need someone who will help you process all of this. I can make a call. He’s an old friend of my father’s. His name is Dr. Alvin, and he is one of the best psychiatrists in the world. I’ve known him for years. He’s a nice man.”

Neal bit down on the ice chip in his mouth. “I don’t know.”

Dr. Carber did not respond. It was a not a ‘no’, and this was all he hoped for.

Neal's eyes started to dart around the room. “When is Peter coming back?”

Dr. Carber placed his chart on the table. He stood and took a look at the heart monitor. Neal’s heart rate was rising.

“I’m really dizzy,” Neal whispered, yanking for the collar of his hospital gown.

“Try and stay calm, Neal,” Dr. Carber replied. He wanted to reach for his stethoscope, but refrained.

“Where is Peter?!” he yelled, bringing his knees to his chest. He placed his left cheek against his knees. He wrapped his arms around his legs. He closed his eyes—no, he squeezed them shut.

“Neal, would you like a valium?”

“No! I don’t want that shit!” He felt the tears leave his eyes. He didn’t know why he was crying at this particular moment. He was fine sixty seconds earlier. His heart hurt. His head hurt. His bones hurt. Everything fucking hurt.

“Neal, relax,” Peter said.

“Peter?” he whispered. His eyes were still closed.

Peter, who had heard Neal scream from the hallway only ten seconds earlier, was out of breath. He had run from the elevator. He placed his arm on Neal’s back—a risk, yes, but he said fuck it and took it. “Yes.”

Neal’s eye peeled open. He saw the tan pants, the gold badge on his hip.

Dr. Carber watched as his heart rate came back down to normal numbers.

“I’m sorry,” Neal whispered. Small sobs left his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

Peter and Dr. Carber locked eyes. Peter sighed and rubbed his hand in circular motions on the younger man’s back. “It’s okay, Neal. No one is mad at you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dr. Alvin was a tall, slim, man in his early 70’s. He was active—he biked almost 15 miles a day, every day. He lived out in Long Island, and was considered within his profession, to be one of the best. Psychiatry was his game, and he had been playing for almost 50 years. He specialized in traumatic events and post-traumatic stress disorder.

It was an ordinary Tuesday for him. He did 30 laps at the pool at his gym, and then biked to his office. He saw his usual patients. Moira, the abused wife of a politician, Phil, the former Marine, and Lily, a 20-year old college sophomore who suffered years of abuse and neglect that the foster system handled all too regularly.

“Dr. Alvin,” Sherry, his long-time office manager, and dear friend for more than 27 years, said through the intercom. “There’s a Mitch Carber on the line. He said you would know who he is.”

Dr. Alvin raised his brow. How unusual, he thought. He hadn’t spoken to Mitch in almost 12 years—not by choice, but alas, just life. Dr. Alvin had gone to medical school with Mitch’s father, Stephen. Both men had gone on to becoming psychiatrists, and were life-long friends, that is until Stephen passed away about a decade ago. Car accident.

“Mitch Carber,” Dr. Alvin said into the receiver.

“Dr. Alvin,” Mitch said.

“How are you my dear? Everything okay?”

“Yes, everything by me is fine.”

“What an unexpected delight, my boy.”

“How’s Debbie?” Mitch asked, referring to Dr. Alvin’s wife. “Still writing?”

“Every day. She has a new short story collection coming out next Fall.”

“That’s wonderful.”

Dr. Alvin paused. He heard the anguish in Mitch’s voice. It was subtle, but he was after all, an expert in detecting and helping others through pain. “What’s the matter?”

Dr. Carber did not respond right away. In all honesty, he did not know how to. He felt a tickle in his throat. “Jeez…I…uh…”

“It’s alright, my dear. Tell me when you’re ready.”

Dr. Carber breathed in deep. “It’s a patient I’m treating.”

Dr. Alvin did not respond. He waited for more.

“It’s just… look, I’ve been an emergency doctor for almost 20 years…I’ve seen a lot of things okay? Really terrible things. Car accidents, stab wounds, gunshot wounds. You know?”

“Yes, I know,” Dr. Alvin said.

“This man…he came in last week…I’m still treating him…”

“You sound very upset, Mitch.”

“I am!” Dr. Carber yelled into the phone. He took a deep breath, trying to contain his voice. “I’m sorry I yelled. I’m so fucking angry. I just…what I saw…I’ve never …. this man was being held a prisoner… he was beaten…starved…sexually assaulted. The wounds on him… god, it can’t even begin to compare to the mental wounds he’s most likely facing. Dr. Alvin, this man is going to need a lot of help. Look I know you’re busy…but I just…if anyone can help him, I know you are his only shot.”

“Is he still in the hospital?”

Dr. Carber cleared his throat. “Yes. He is still healing physically. He will mostly likely be here another week. He works for the FBI. He’s not agent…that is also a unique situation. But I am told he is going back to Manhattan, or Brooklyn, I’m not sure.”

Dr. Alvin looking down at his date book. Mitch had never made a call like this to him. “I can be upstate by tomorrow morning. I’d like to meet this man, acquaint myself with him, see if he is receptive to talking.”

Dr. Carber let out a big sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Mitch. What is the young man’s name?”

“Neal.”


	16. Chapter 16

He stirred. His eyes were still closed but he was coming out of his sleep. He remembers the television was on, maybe it was a baseball game. Peter was sitting beside him, eating pretzels and drinking a Sprite he had purchased from the vending machine. It was quiet now though. No television, no light snores. He concentrated on breathing. Peter had gone to the hotel.

He heard footsteps.

He opened his good eye, and then he forced his bad eye open too. Dr. Carber took the bandage off yesterday. It was still slightly swollen, and he did not need surgery on it. It was dark. Peter had turned off the lights above his bed before he left.

It’s probably Gina, one of his nurses. She was working night shifts this week. “Gi…Gina?” he said. It came out softer than he expected, but his throat felt scratchy and dry.

As his eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness, he saw the figure of a body move towards the left side of his bed. Its frame was much larger than Gina’s. It was definitely a man.

“Peter?” he said.

The figure reached for the switch above his bed. The lights above him flickered once, and then they were on.

It was Jorge.

“Hi baby. I missed you so much,” he said as he leaned over the railing. He was inches from Neal’s face.

Neal’s entire body had gone rigid. He truly believed his heart had stopped. Jorge’s face became blurrier as a thick wall of tears instantly formed in his eyes. His lips parted, but nothing came from them. The air was stuck in the middle of his throat.

“You feeling better, my love?” he asked, running his fingers through Neal’s hair.

Neal squeezed his eyes shut. “This is a dream. This is dream. This is a dream,” he whispered over and over. Just like the ones he had been having every day and night.

“That’s so sweet, you’ve been dreaming about me,” Jorge said, continuing to stroke his hair.

“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. He’s not here. He’s not here,” Neal whispered.

“I am here, baby,” Jorge said. “Open your eyes. I want you to see me. I know you missed me these last few days.”

“No, you’re in jail—”

“I was, for what? I don’t know, but some friends bailed me out. I don’t really understand the whole thing, baby. All I was doing was taking care of you, loving you. I know sometimes I got rough with you, and for that I’m sorry. You just rile me up sometimes. It’s just because I love you so much.”

Neal’s entire body was shaking. He wanted to scream. How the fuck could this be happening?!

“When you’re feeling better, we’ll go back home. I’ll make you your favorite dinner. It’ll be just like before but better. I’ve missed you so much. I never want to lose you again, Neal.”

Neal shook his head. “No.” His shoulders and chest started to rise. He was going to run.

Jorge’s large palm went against his chest. He placed pounds of pressure against it and Neal went straight back down. His free hand went around Neal’s upper arm and he squeezed it tight. “We belong together, Neal. Everyone is jealous of what we have and they’re trying to keep us apart, don’t you see that? They can’t have the love that we have, that’s why they don’t want us together.”

“Somebody! Help m—” Neal screamed before Jorge’s hand went over his mouth.

“What’s a matter with you?” Jorge whispered in a harsh tone. “Have they brainwashed you?”

Neal’s tears fell onto Jorge’s hand. “They’re trying to tear us apart.” Jorge’s hand, previously around Neal’s arm, now went around his hip. His hand slid up, groping the lower section of ribs on his right side. He squeezed, hard. Neal’s breath became caught in his chest as the pain exploded.

“I’ll bring you back home, don’t worry.” He removed his hand from his mouth and swiftly bent forward. His mouth touched Neal’s.

“I’ll see you very, very soon, my love,” Jorge said, smiling down.

And just like that, he was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The phone rang. It rang and ran and rang. Peter was in such a deep sleep that he didn’t hear it at first. For a moment, he forgot the situation he was in. And then, it hit him, and his eyes shot open. He reached for the nightstand.

“This is Burke.”

“Peter, it’s Doctor Carber.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked. He turned on the lamp and picked up his watch. It was 5:45 in the morning.

“Ummm…Neal, uh…please just come to the hospital.”

“Dammit, Mitch, tell me,” Peter responded as he pulled his pants over his legs.

“He locked himself in the bathroom. We’re looking for the key…he’s pretty hysterical.”

“I’ll be there in 10 minutes.”

He put his phone in his pocket, grabbed the shirt he was wearing the night before, his wallet and keys, and grabbed his sneakers. He would put them on in the car.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He didn’t bother to take the elevator. He ran up the three flights of stairs and down the hallway. The floor was empty, but it usually was at 6 a.m. He entered Neal’s room. Dr. Carber and Gina, the night nurse, were standing by the closed bathroom door. He glanced around the room.

“Is that blood?” Peter asked, bending his knees towards the floor, inspecting further. There was a trail of small droplets from the bed to the bathroom.

“It’s from his IV,” Dr. Carber said, “he ripped it out of his arm.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Gina said, “I was doing my routine checks. I checked on him at 4 a.m., he was sleeping, everything was fine. When I came back at 5, this is what I walked into.”

“You don’t have a key to the door?” he asked, stepping towards them.

“Maintenance is looking for a copy. A nurse misplaced the master key yesterday.”

“Neal, Peter is here,” Dr. Carber said into the door.

Peter pressed his ear against the door. He heard sobs, muffled, long, drawn out. “Neal, it’s Peter.”

“I…I…need…I…need…” but the words stopped from Neal’s lips.

“Breathe, Neal,” Peter said. “In and out, okay? You’ll tell me after you catch your breath, okay?”

Neal struggled, he really, really did.

“In and out, Neal, you can do it,” Peter said.

“Fuck,” Neal cried as he retched into the toilet. Nothing came out. His ribs burned, his stomach ached, his heart pounded against his chest, his back was strained. He closed his eyes as he leaned back against the wall.

“Neal, I have the key to the door, I’m going to open it, and I’m going to come in with Dr. Carber. We need to make sure you’re okay,” Peter said.

“No! I don’t want anyone to come in here!” Neal screamed.

Peter slid the brass metal into the lock, but he did not turn it.

“Please,” Neal pleaded. “I want to leave. Okay? I want to leave the hospital.”

Peter placed his forehead against the door. There was panic in Neal’s voice, and pain, so much pain. “Neal, if you want to leave the hospital, you’ll have to open the door, right?”

“I know that. But I don’t want anyone near me right now.”

“Are you hurt? Dr. Carber said you ripped your IV out.”

“Please, just leave me alone!” he cried. A fresh wave of tears emerged and he sobbed. He cried, like an injured animal. They were long and drawn out wails.

“Jesus, Neal, please let me come in,” Peter pleaded softly.

But Neal didn’t hear him over his own cries. He just couldn’t control himself at this point. He buried his face in his knees, which were drawn close to his chest.

“I know you said you wanted to be alone, but I don’t think you should be, I’m going to open the door, Neal.”

Peter turned the key. What he saw instantly reminded him of finding Neal in the basement of hell. He was against the wall, squeezed in the tight space between the toilet and the sink. His knees to his chest, with his fingers gripping at the excess material of his black sweatpants. Peter crouched down, got on his hands and knees. “Look at me, please?” he asked in a gentle tone.

Neal obeyed. His eyes were red and puffy. His cheeks were damp. Sweat covered every inch of his exposed skin, yet he appeared to be shivering.

“I can’t stay here,” he said. Fear was laced in his blue eyes. “And...and…” his voice was shaking so much. “And…I need the FBI to put one of those chips in my skin, in my forearm, like Interpol does, so you can find me anywhere, okay?”

“Neal, what—”

“Please! I’ll pay for it!”

“It’s not about mo—”

“He said he was going to bring me home. I can’t go back there. I can’t. I’d rather die.”

“Neal, you’re having a manic episode,” Dr. Carber said quietly from the door. “Please let me give you something to calm you down.”

“You said he was in jail,” Neal said, looking Peter in the eye. “Why would you say that if he wasn’t? You should have told me he wasn’t. I…I…should have been given the chance to protect myself…I’m a human being.”

A pit formed in Peter’s stomach. He now noticed the yellow and purple spots, the formation of a bruise, peeking out from underneath his sleeve. That was not there yesterday. “Was…was he here?”

“I really do want to go home,” he said as fresh tears fell from his eyes.

Dr. Carber stood and turned to Gina. “Get the head of security in here now.” She nodded and jogged out of the room.

“He kissed me, on the lips…” His stomach cramped immediately as soon as those words left his mouth. He back curled and he turned, leaning over the toilet bowl, and he retched again. His left arm wrapped around his ribs, and he clutched the right side of them, as if holding them in place. Dr. Carber noticed this.

  
Peter stood and exited the bathroom. There was anger in his eyes. A deep anger Dr. Carber had never seen in anyone. In all honesty, it frightened him. “You need to discharge him, or I will take him into FBI protective custody and override your medical authority. I’d rather do the former though.”

Dr. Carber nodded. “Okay. But he…he needs to be examined, Peter. He could be…hurt. I can already tell by the way he was holding his side that there are new sprained ribs. Left side.”

A thousand and one thoughts raced through Peter’s head. Had Neal been raped again? By the man he promised would never hurt him? In a place Peter promised he would be safe?

Peter nodded. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but no words came. He turned around, facing the small bathroom, not ready, in any way, to ask the broken man on the floor to trust him again, and agree to his request. He entered and crouched down. Neal was back against the wall. His elbow resting on his knees. His palm covering his forehead. His eyes were closed.

“Neal…I don’t know how to ask you to trust me again, I know…but I want to get you out of here, I do, and so does Dr. Carber. To do that, he’ll need to examine you, fully.”

Neal opened his eyes. They were red and puffy. God he was exhausted.

“He’ll need to…he’ll need to do another…rape kit.”

“He didn’t rape me,” Neal whispered. His voice was so soft, Peter barely heard him.

“I know you don’t want to go through that again, I understand—”

“He didn’t rape me,” he said again, this time louder. “Do you think I’m lying to you?”

“I didn’t say that. If there is…physical evidence, I can arrest him again, put him back in jail tonight.”

“Well you won’t find it,” Neal answered. “Because he didn’t rape me.”

Peter nodded. “Okay.” He stood, not sure what to believe. He wanted to believe Neal, he really did, but he also knew Neal wanted to believe certain things himself.

It took 15 minutes of coaxing before Neal finally left the bathroom floor. He sat in a chair, saying he didn’t want to go back in that bed. “I want valium,” he said in flat tone.

After Dr. Carber administered the small white pill, he waited 10 minutes for it to kick in. In the interim, he swabbed the area where his IV had been pulled with alcohol. Neal’s body was tense the entire time, and lord did Dr. Carber feel awful touching him. When he saw Neal’s body loosen, relax, he knew the valium was kicking in.

“I’m going to lower your gown, Neal,” he said. Neal didn’t respond. His eyes had become sullen, and almost struggled to stay open.

A mural of purple and blue pain painted his body. His skin was stretched so taught over his bones, and every time he breathed in, his ribs became a clearer image than they were a second earlier. Dr. Carber noted the new bruising around the last two ribs on his right side. Neal hissed when he touched it.

“He thinks were in love,” Neal said softly, as Dr. Carber lifted his arm. “He really believes were in a relationship.”

Peter’s gaze remained on the floor. He didn’t want Neal to see the anger in his eyes. “What else did he say?”

“If you don’t put the tracker in my arm, maybe you would let Mozzie take me somewhere? He’s really good at not leaving a trace. I don’t even think you could find him, and if you can’t find him…then no one can find him,” Neal rambled. “Why would they let him out on bail? I don’t understand that…didn’t the judge see the pictures?”

“Neal, I’m going to place a stethoscope on your back, I want to check your breathing,” Dr. Carber said. He did his best to warm the metal in his hands before placing it on his back.

“Is it because I’m a criminal?” Neal asked. His voice was getting quieter. “Is that why? To hell with me?”

Peter lifted his head. He locked eyes with Neal. “No. You and him are not the same, okay? I need you to understand that. I don’t know how they let him out on bail, I really don’t. And I was told he was being watched. And I was also told one of the conditions of his bail was that he was not to come within 100 feet of you.”

Neal’s head fell. Tears fell onto his gown. “He really didn’t rape me this morning. You don’t need to do the rape kit. I’m not lying. Okay?”

Dr. Carber and Peter locked eyes. Peter nodded.

“Okay, Neal,” Dr. Carber said. “You can pull your gown up. I’m going to get the discharge papers rolling. I’ll have you out of here in an hour or so.”

Neal had lost all his energy at this point, and his doctor could tell. Dr. Carber took his fingers and placed them on the hem of his gown, lying on Neal’s lap. He started to lift it, and suddenly Neal grabbed his hands, but not in a rough manner. He lifted his eyes, his blue eyes red and strained. “Thank you, Dr. Carber.”


	17. Chapter 17

“You sure you want the window down? It’s 50 degrees outside,” Peter said, glancing in his rearview mirror.

Neal didn’t respond. The sun was shining on his forehead. The wind was blowing through his hair.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything…about…him,” Peter said, 20 miles later. “I’m going to have two Agents outside…that house…watching his every move.”

“Where are we going?” Neal finally asked. They were 30 miles farther than when the last time Peter had spoke.

“My house.”

“No.”

Peter glanced in the rearview mirror. The window was up. Neal’s forehead was against the glass. His eyes had never strayed from the outside. “No?”

“Do you really want him to know where you and Elizabeth sleep? Do you really want to put her in that kind of danger?”

How was Peter to respond to that? No, Neal was wrong? Jorge wouldn’t find out where he lived, or no, even if that were true, he would protect Neal. What did those words mean? He had failed to protect Neal. Twice. “He will never come within 10 feet of my house.”

“Can we, I mean, did you…will…will the FBI chip me?”

Peter gripped his steering wheel, keeping his eyes on the road. He hated that Neal had to ask. To chip him. Like a dog. “I…I didn’t have a chance to talk to anyone about it yet.”

“Maybe Mozzie can do it if they won’t,” Neal said, though his tone was soft, almost as if he was thinking aloud to himself. He struggled to keep his eyes open. Twenty miles to New York City, Neal succumbed to sleep.

They were in Brooklyn an hour later, but Peter kept driving. He drove around his neighborhood, making turn after turn. It was as if Neal were a toddler, Peter just wanted him to get the rest he needed.

45 minutes later, Peter finally parked the car, though he kept the engine running. He glanced at his watch. It was almost 3. He glanced back. Neal was still asleep. He looked almost at peace. Finally, around 4, he stirred. Peter watched through the mirror, how his eyes darted from side to side, almost manic, as he was trying to assess where he was. The panic disappeared a few seconds later.

“How long have we been in front of your house?”

“Just a few minutes.”

“Is Elizabeth home?”

“No, she’ll be back around 7.”

It took all the energy Neal had to get out of the car. He was exhausted, and his ribs hurt, and the thought of why they hurt made him dizzy. By the time he entered the Burke’s living room, he was panting.

“Sit, sit,” Peter said, guiding him to the couch. He placed the small duffle bag on the ground and grabbed the gray throw blanket resting on the chair beside him. Neal obliged, he was too tired to stand.

“Do you want something to eat? Some tea?” Peter asked, heading for the kitchen. “I’ll make some tea.”

As Neal caught his breath and settled into the soft cushion, he listed as Peter rumbled in the kitchen, the teapot and cups clanking around, the water running, cabinets opening and closing.

That’s when it hit him really. Hot tears engulfed his eyes, the sting of his sinuses getting ready to close, his chest riddled with heaviness. He buried his face in his hands, unable to control himself. He really hoped he wasn’t sobbing.

“Do you want lemon?” The whistling of the teapot erupted.

Another wave of tears emerged.

“Neal?”

He was sobbing now.

“Neal?” Peter repeated. He entered his living room and took in the scene. He immediately rushed to the couch and sat down, placing his arm around him, and Neal leaned in, though he kept his hands over his face, trying to contain himself as much he could. He felt Peter’s hand on his back, rubbing it in circles.

‘’mm sorry,” Neal choked out.

“Shhhh,” Peter responded.

Neal took in a deep breath and removed his hands. “Do you know how fucking weird it is? To be sitting in your living room? Talking to me?! I…I…really thought I was going to die there. I really did. I never thought I would see you or anyone else again. And now I’m just here. I know this is real…but I also keep waiting to wake up.”


	18. Chapter 18

He became fixated on the steam, watching it rise, dissipate into droplets in the air. He brought his knees to his chest, and wrapped his arms around them. He leaned forward, laying his left ear against his knees. The bathroom door was ajar, just a bit. He breathed in the eucalyptus and orange scent, willing himself to relax. That’s what baths were for, no?

But he couldn’t do it.

Any minute, he was sure Jorge was going to walk into the Burke’s upstairs bathroom, at 1 in the afternoon, on a Wednesday, and tell him to get out and follow him to the bedroom.

He closed his eyes, trying to think of something else. He pleaded with himself to do so. Just one other thing, a nice thing.

Instead he pictured Jorge’s fingers, running up against his arm, entangling them in his hair, running down his back.

He let the water drain.

He let out an exasperated sigh as he wrapped the thick white DNKY towel around his waist, it was almost a chuckle actually. What was the point?

He was almost surprised he noticed the mirror, above the sink, all fogged up, hiding his appearance. He almost couldn’t remember a time when he was in a room with a mirror.

Did he dare?

Slowly, despite the pain in his ribs, he lifted his right hand, and palm against the glass, he swiped, back and forth, back and forth.

He stared…at someone, but it certainly could not be Neal Caffrey. No. This was someone else. Bony, underweight, pale, a grey sheen, lifeless swollen eyes. Peering lower, past his jaw, fading yellow and purple bruises in random spots, along his chest, along his stomach, imprinted around his arms.

He turned around quickly, stunned. He leaned against the sink, his legs beginning to shake.

“Neal? You alright?” Peter asked after a knock on the door on the other side. “I don’t mean to bother, but it was just awfully quiet.”

“Fine,” he whispered, bending his knees. “I’m fine.”  
Peter bit his lip. He knew that tone. “You need any help?” But there was no answer. “I’m going to come in, unless you tell me not to.” No answer again. He pushed the door open, slowly. Neal was against the sink, leaning forward, almost to a forty-five degree angle.

Peter lowered the lid of the toilet and guided him towards it. “It’s alright, c’mon.” He grabbed another towel and draped it over his shoulders.

Neal breathed in and out, very long and very slowly.

Peter waited, and as he did, he saw the handprint on the mirror.

“I didn’t see my reflection for almost a year. I knew I wouldn’t look the same, but…I don’t know who I just looked at.”

Peter had no immediate response, though after a minute, he said, “You’ll be looking like your old self in no time. A few weeks.”

Neal nodded, exhausted by this brief yet consuming event.

Yes, his bruises would fade, his skin would get some color, he would gain back some weight, and yes, in all likelihood, he would look like his ‘old self’ again, but in that tiny bathroom in Brooklyn, both he and Peter were thinking things that would never be said out loud.

His charm. Gone.

His handsomeness. Gone.

His muscles. Gone.

His faith. Gone.

His spirit. Gone.

Neal Caffrey. Gone.


	19. Chapter 19

“Cream and sugar?” Peter asked, opening up his fridge.

“Milk, if you have, no sugar” Dr. Carber replied, setting his bag on the kitchen counter. “Thanks.”

Peter nodded and took out the carton of milk. “Thank you…for coming. I know Brooklyn is a long way out.”

“It’s really no problem, Peter. How is Neal doing?”

Peter didn’t respond. 

Dr. Carber blew on the steam. “I take it not good?”

Peter nodded. 

“That’s to be expected. There is really no timeline for this.” He placed his mug back on the counter. “Shall I go see him?”

Peter led him up the stairs and down the narrow hallway. The last door on the right was open, but he knocked anyways. He did not wait for a response. 

Neal was in bed, his back facing them. Whether he was actually asleep was unknown. It was noon, but the blinds were drawn and no sunlight could be seen. The only source of light came from the muted television in the corner. 

“Neal, Dr. Carber is here. Remember I said he was going to come by?” Peter said as he switched the lamp on. 

Neal’s hand immediately went over his eyes, the light sure to burn his drowsy retinas. 

“Hi Neal, it’s nice to see you again.”

Neal sat up slowly, the exhaustion never leaving his body. “Hi Dr. Carber.”

The doctor gave a small smile, a reactionary gesture to hide his dissapointment. Except for the bruises and cuts on his face, which were gone, Neal’s appearance had remained the same. His face was still pale and gaunt, his clothes hung on his bones. He appeared exhausted and sluggish. “Peter said you agreed to a check-up if I came by, is that still okay?”

Neal sighed under his breath. “Yes.”

“Good,” he replied. “Would you like to come downstairs? Or we can do it here if you’d like. It’s entirely up to you.”

“Here is fine,” he replied. He moved the blanket over his legs and swung them over the bed. 

“You, uh, want me to stay?” Peter asked.

“I’m fine,” he said softly.

Peter nodded. “I’ll uh, head back downstairs. I’ll make some lunch.”

Neal didn’t respond. He sat quietly, staring at the carpet. Dr. Carber pulled up the wooden chair and proceeded to take out his stethoscope and other instruments. “I’d like to check your blood pressure,” he said, undoing the Velcro cuff.

Neal nodded and stuck his arm out. 

Dr. Carber lifted the sleeve of his grey thermal shirt. “How you doing, Neal?” he asked, squeezing.

Neal’s eyes never left the ground. “You know.”

Dr. Carber counted the seconds on his watch as he continued to squeeze. “I’m going to lift up your shirt so I can check your breathing with the stethoscope.”

Neal’s entire body shivered at the touch of the cold metal. He breathed in and out mechanically. 

“Do your ribs still hurt?” he asked, touching them.

Neal hissed at the touch and leaned back a little. Dr. Carber removed his hands and held them up. “They’re fine,” he grimaced. 

“Sleeping, eating okay?”

“Too much and too little,” he responded, pulling his shirt back down. 

“I can tell. How much weight have you gained? Five pounds it seems,” Dr. Carber said. It’s been a little over a month since you’ve left the hospital, Neal. I would have like if you gained at least 9 or 10.”

“My stomach hurts all day after I eat something.”

“Your stomach has shrunk significantly, but you still need to try. You also need physical exercise. Not too much though, we don’t want you to lose any more weight, but something to get you moving. It will stimulate your appetite, you’ll sleep better. How about a short walk? 10-15 minutes to start with.”

Neal was quiet. 

“It’s getting warmer outside.”

“I…I don’t think its safe.”

“Peter has informed me there are federal agents outside of this house at all times.”

“Peter doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Neal snapped. His tone was ice. 

Dr. Carber nodded. “Okay.”

“I’m not crazy.”

“I never said you were.”

“But you’re thinking it.”

“No,” Dr. Carber stated. “Not at all.”

“I wouldn’t care even if you did.” 

Dr. Carber didn’t respond right away. He could see the water daring to spill from the younger man’s eyes. He took out his prescription pad. “I’m going to write you a couple of scripts. Vitamins, an appetite stimulant. I’m going to come back in a month. I’d like to see you gain 5 more pounds,” he said, tearing the paper off the pad. “Do you have any questions?”

“Can I go back to bed?”

Dr. Carber gave a small, but sad smile. “Sure.”

Neal lifted his legs and pulled the blanket over them.

Dr. Carber headed back down the stairs. Peter was in his kitchen, standing over the stove. Steam was rising from the pot. “My wife Elizabeth made leek and potato soup, she—”

“Peter.”

“Neal really likes it—”

“Peter. Stop.”

Peter sighed and refolded the small towel on the counter. “I don’t know what to do for him anymore.”

“You are doing the best you can. This is an impossible situation.”

“He’s paranoid, rightfully so. He’s depressed, also rightfully so. He can’t relax…he’s exhausted because he doesn’t sleep, and when he does, he has nightmares of that monster raping him. When’s he awake he thinks about it. I can tell. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“He will learn to manage, Peter. If he wants his life back, he will have to learn,” Dr. Carber said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He produced a card and placed it near Peter’s hand. “This is the best psychiatrist I know. He’s an old friend of my fathers’ and I trust him with my life. If anyone has a shot at helping Neal, it’s this man. Make an appointment. Today. Neal is spiraling, and he will not last forever like this. Do you understand me?”

Peter’s gaze met the physician’s. He nodded. “Yes.”


	20. Chapter 20

He coursed through the pages in meticulous fashion. Each was worse than the last. The medical records, beholden within the manila folder, told a very gruesome, very brutal, very unbearable story. “My god,” he murmured under his breath as he gazed at the photographs. 

“Dr. Alvin, your two o’clock is here,” his assistant said through the intercom. 

He closed the folder and cleared his throat. “Yes, send him in please.”

There was a light knock on the door. Beside it stood Neal Caffrey. His hair dark, his skin pale, his eyes piercing blue. He looked worn and exhausted, yet despite this, Dr. Alvin noted his handsomeness, as it was blatant as the beigeness of the wallpaper. 

“Hello, Neal,” he said. A warm smile embodied his face. He motioned for the young man to come in, though he made no attempt to step close to him and shake his hand. “Sit, please,” he said, gesturing towards the pair of armchairs. 

Neal did as he was told. His steps were timid and fast. He only made eye contact when the two were sitting across from each other. He made no attempt to take off his jacket. 

“Find the place alright?” Dr. Alvin asked, situating himself in the chair. He had no pad or pen. That was not how he conducted his sessions. 

“Peter drove me,” he said. 

“Who is Peter?”

Neal did not miss a beat. “You know who he is.”

Dr. Alvin smiled. “They told me you would be smarter than me. Brilliant, actually.”

Neal chuckled, but it was sarcastic. He shook his head. “Far from it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“If I was brilliant, I wouldn’t have gotten myself into the situation I was in, or I would have at least found a way out.”

“Would you like to talk about that?”

Neal eyed him, then his office, then the open door. “You didn’t close your door.”

“I know.”

“You knew I would ask you to keep it open.”

“Yes.”

Neal nodded. “I . . . I don’t know . . . I don’t know how to act anymore.”

“For yourself or for others?”

Neal didn’t respond right away. He had to actually think about it. And there was such an easiness to Dr. Alvin. He felt no pressure for a quick response. He made him feel calm. “I suppose both.”

Dr. Alvin nodded. “Well Neal, there is no playbook, no manual, no instructions for dealing with trauma. No two people deal with it in the same way. I have been doing this a very long time, and I can promise you that, in this stage, when everything is so new and fresh, your priority is you. Only you.”

The waterworks seemed to turn on, again. The hotness swelled in his eyes. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I’ve been out of …that place…for almost two months now. The simplest things…closing the door to the bathroom, turning on a television, listening to music, eating for christ’s sake….those are all normal things, that I haven’t been able to do…and every time I do them…I just feel so incredibly grateful that I get to do them…and I think about why…and I break down.”

Dr. Alvin nodded as he placed a tissue box on the small table next to him. “Neal, I will admit, your situation is a bit more particular than others, but it is trauma. One thing I want you to understand, is that it might take you a long time to feel ‘normal’, aka more like yourself or more like times before the trauma took place, but you feeling down or grateful as you described, doing any of those things, is you processing everything—and that is good.”

“I’m so exhausted,” he said in a soft tone. “I swore to myself if I ever got out of there, I would live my life to the fullest. But…I’m not. I’m scared, of everything, I second guess myself, everyone around me. I don’t trust anyone. Most days I don’t want to get out of bed.”

“You came here today, didn’t you? You’re talking to me. These are huge steps.”

“I’m a criminal, did you know that?”

“I’ve reviewed your file. That’s quite a harsh term, don’t you think?”

“It’s the truth. I am…I was…a con man. A good one, too.”

“And you’re not anymore?”

Neal rubbed his chapped lips with his fingers, contemplating. “I don’t think so.”

“So you’re not sure, it sounds like.”

“I don’t see myself having enough confidence to fool anyone ever again.”

“Well, I certainly don’t want to encourage you to break the law, Neal, but you have opened up to me within the past 15 minutes—I see that as a very optimistic sign that you will gain your confidence back.”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t really believe that statement to be true. 

“Tell me about Peter.”

“He’s my best friend.”

“He’s also your handler, correct?”

“Yes.”  
Dr. Alvin did not quip back. He sat there, a soft smile on his lips. His job was to listen, and he conveyed that message without even having to speak. 

Neal chewed on his bottom lip; contemplating. He looked down at his hands. They were clasped together. “I blame him for what happened to me.”

Dr. Alvin again, did not respond. 

“If he hadn’t of sent me into that room, undercover…maybe that’s unfair of me to think that…to blame him, but I do.”

“Have you said such to him?”

Neal shook his head. “I don’t have to. He knows it.”

“But does he know that you feel that way?”

“What good would it do?”

“You referred to him earlier as your best friend. You still hold him in high regard.”

“He didn’t know…what was going to happen was going to happen. If he did, he never would have sent me undercover, I know that. And yes, I do still think highly of him, but part of me is fucking angry with him. Is that fucked up?”

“Not at all. A highly intelligent person such as yourself is able to differentiate between what it means to be a good person with good intentions yet still make a bad decision and not deem them a bad person.”

“I’m afraid that I…I maybe can’t forgive him. I want to someday, I think…”

“Then you will.”

“But what if I can’t?” He reached for a tissue.

“Then you won’t. it really is that simple, Neal. It may not come easy, and may not come for some time, but you are in control of your life now, and you can do or not do whatever you would like.”


	21. Chapter 21

After several sessions with Dr. Alvin, and some serious inner conflict and self-convincing, Neal pushed himself to go outside. His goal was a walk, just a brief one around the block. He stood on Peter and Elizabeth’s stoop for several minutes, surveying. There was an elderly couple walking hand in hand. Coming around the corner was young lady, walking her Doberman. His focus slowly turned to the gray sedan town car across the street and the two men inside it. Randall and Lenny. They had only been employed by the Bureau for six months and there was little doubt they were not enjoying their assignment of guarding Peter Burke’s house.

Peter watched from the door, unbeknownst to Neal. Neal, wrapped in an oversized wool coat, his thin legs sticking out of it like twigs, his head moving from left to right, uncertain. He watched and waited. He watched him put his right foot onto the pavement and then abruptly stop.

 _Just fucking go_ , Neal thought to himself. He put one foot on the pavement, and then the other. He smiled. _Stop smiling, you fool—all you did was go on the damn sidewalk_. His smile disappeared quickly. He looked around again. The streets were fairly empty now.

Except for the man in the green jacket around the corner. Neal’s eyes shifted, but the man disappeared—a little too quickly for his liking. He didn’t get a good look at his face. What if that was him?

_No, it’s not him. It’s not._

He turned around. Up a step, up a step, up a step, up a step, up a step. Peter had the door open already. His brown eyes met his blue ones. “I think it’s going to rain,” he said, walking past him, unbuttoning his coat as he did so.

Peter closed the door, peering briefly at the cloudless sky. “Maybe,” he said. “You want something to eat?”

But Neal was gone. He had retreated to his room, and Peter knew better than to think he would come back out for the remainder of the day.

******

It was well past 4 a.m., Neal could tell by the infomercials displayed on the television. He didn’t know what product was being pushed, the volume was always low. He liked the murmur of sound, he felt less alone with it. He sat up, his back cracking as he did—that’s what almost 12 hours of non-movement would do. He hadn’t left the house in three days; it was too cold, he reasoned.

He swung the blanket off his legs. He stood, cranking his neck in the process. He took the few steps towards the window, the street lamps lighting the streets. It was quiet and still. He glanced at the grey sedan. It was Thursday. Greg and Zeke were on surveillance.

From around the corner, he saw a large German Shepard appear. Behind him, holding its leash, a man followed. He was wearing a long gray overcoat, a brown scarf, and a black hat. Neal watched. The duo continued down the street, the dog stopped in front of a tree. Neal could not get a very good look at the his face. Suddenly, the man looked up, and it seemed he stared right at Neal. He picked up his brown glove covered hand-and waved.

Neal stepped back. His heart beating faster and faster with each second that passed. He shook his head. _No. I’m imaging in things, that’s all. I haven’t been sleeping well. I must be hallucinating._

  
His attention jolted towards his nightstand. The screen on his phone was lit up, accompanied with a short vibration. His palms were sweaty, he had a lump in his throat he couldn’t seem to swallow. He reached for the device, his vision becoming blurry as he did so. It was from a number he did not recognize.

_Soon._

Neal blinked away the tears. _Soon_ — _what could that mean?_ _Soon Jorge would get him? Soon they would been together?_ The phone slid out of his palm and onto the rug. Peter. He should wake up Peter. He turned and put one foot in front of the other—but then stopped. What if it was a wrong number? ‘Soon’ could mean anything from anyone. He tried to breath and rationalize. He couldn’t run to Peter for every little thing—not if he wanted to get his life back. He had to relearn how to handle things.

He walked back towards his bed and picked up the phone. He hit reply.

_Who is this?_

A minute passed. Then another. He focused on breathing, in and out. He felt more vibrations in his hand. He took another big breath before looking down.

_You can either come outside by yourself, or I’ll come inside and wake EVERYONE in that house up._

Neal didn’t outright react. It was as if he had lost his senses. Finally, his mouth moved. “Peter…” he whispered, but he meant to scream it. “Peter,” he said again, this time a little louder, but he knew no one heard him. Elizabeth would have heard him, she had some sort of super-sonic hearing, but she was in D.C.

He stood, but the blood rushed from his head, and his legs shook, sending him crumping to the floor. His heart raced, but time stood still. _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten._ He forced one deep breath. “PETER!” he screamed.

He thinks he heard knees bumping into a nightstand, then feet shuffling, then creaks in the floor board, then his door open.

“Neal?”

The light in his room came on. 

Peter was next to him, kneeling on the floor. “What is it? What's wrong?”

Neal swallowed, but he couldn’t catch his breath. He shook his head frantically.

“Are you hurt?” Peter asked, concern in his voice. Neal had never screamed for him in the middle of the night. “Did you have nightmare?” he asked, placing his hand on Neal’s shoulder. He was soaked in sweat, yet shivering at the same time.

“N..N..NO!”

“Okay, okay, are you hurt?”

“He’s…he’s here…he's-”

“Neal…we have agents 24/7—”

“No!” he shouted, interrupting him. He shoved the phone in his hand into Peter's.

Peter looked, and as he read, his heart jumped into his throat. Five seconds--that's all he allowed for himself to freak out. But then he went into full FBI Agent mode. “Neal, this is probably nothing, okay? Nothing, but, as a precaution, I want you to get dressed, and we’re going to go to FBI headquarters, okay? He is not supposed to be in contact with you in any way, shape, or form, so we’re going to arrest him, and well put you in FBI protective custody until then, okay?”

Neal breathed in, his heart slowing a little. He nodded. “Okay.”

"I’m going to get dressed. I will be back in 2 minutes.”

Neal nodded.

Peter ran out of the room and back into his. He was dressed in 90 seconds and used the extra 30 to make sure his gun was fully loaded.

Neal waited for Peter to walk past him to follow behind, noticing his hand on his gun resting in his holster.

“We are going to go to the agents’ car, okay?” he said, opening his front door. It was still dark out. He looked around. No one was outside. It was quiet. Peter didn’t like the feeling he was getting. Not one bit. He turned around and forced a small smile. “Everything is fine, Neal. I want you to stay on the steps for one minute.”

“Wait. Where are you going?” Neal’s voice was small, yet full of loud panic.

Peter kept the forced smile. “I just want to make sure everything is secure. You’ll be able to see me the entire time, I’m just walking across the street to the agents’ car. Okay?”

Neal closed his eyes. He nodded. “Okay.”

“Everything is fine,” he reiterated. He turned around and walked calmly down his steps. He approached the car, but stopped in his tracks. The air hitched inside his throat. Glass was on the ground. There was a bullet hole in the window. Blood stained the glass. No movement. They were dead. He pulled his gun out of his holster. "Dammit," he said under his breath, the coldness of the air converting his exhales into smoke. 

“I know you told me to wait inside--”

Peter closed his eyes. Neal was behind him.

“Get back inside the house.” He said this very, very calmly.

“Why…why…is your gun out?”

“I need you to turn around and get back inside the house. Now,” he said more firmly.

“Is..is that blood?” Neal asked, his voice shaking.

Peter turned around, both his hands on his gun, his head moving from side to side. “Neal. Let’s go, now.”

“Are…are…are they dead?”

“Neal, I need you to focus on going backing inside.”

Neal did as he was told, but he doesn’t remember any of it. He doesn’t remember walking back into the townhouse, or the door closing behind him, or the lock turning.

“I have no service,” Peter said under his breath as he tried for the 3rd time to call Diana. “Give me your phone.” But Neal was numb, he couldn’t move. Peter reached into Neal’s jacket pocket, retrieving the phone. There were no service bars. Peter remained calm. “Neal, I’m going into the kitchen to use the landline. Do not move, okay?”

Neal nodded, only able to process the words just spoken to him.

A minute went by, and then two, and then three—or so he thinks. “P…Pe...Peter?”

His voice was shaking, his body was shaking. Everything was a blur. “Peter?” he said again, this time a little louder.

No response. Neal felt sick, the sickest he had felt in a long time. “Peter, please answer me.”

Silence.

He walked slowly, his foot creaking on the floor. “Peter, please answer me,” he said again. He could hear the tears in his voice.

And then he saw it, all that he feared. The phone was hanging by the cord, dangling inches from the ground. Peter was next to it, and Jorge was behind him with his hand around his waist, and the other with a gun pointed at his head.


	22. Chapter 22

The walls were closing in on him. Smaller, and smaller, and smaller. There was no more room. And then it stopped. Now it was just the three of them. Couldn’t the space just swallow him?

“Hello, Neal.”

He took a step back on instinct. _This is just a nightmare. Just a nightmare._

“Run, Neal! Run!” Peter yelled.

Jorge immediately kneed him in the back of his legs, sending him to his knees, though keeping the gun pointed at his head. “Neal, you will do no such thing, unless you want a bullet in his head.”

He saw Peter’s gun across the floor, and then the trickle of blood slowly running down the side of his face from his head. The knot in his stomach was expanding, sinking to the bottom, all the way down the depths of the hell he was in.

“Sit down, Neal,” Jorge said. His tone was calm, sinister. “Or you can watch me put a bullet in his head, and then sit down. Whatever you prefer, baby.”

Neal’s lips parted but no words came. His throat was sore, scratchy, dry. Tears filled his eyes but they didn’t fall. His vision was blurry—perhaps his body’s way of protecting him from things he wished not to see.

“I have an entire team of FBI Agents on their way,” Peter said definitively. “They’re going to come through here any minute. If you don’t want to die, you’ll leave, right now.”

“You lie, Agent Burke. No one is coming.”

“Yes. Yes, they are!” Peter shouted back, but there was no denying the rise of panic now in his tone, as if he didn’t believe his own words.

“Stop it, Peter. Just stop talking, okay?” Neal’s voice was hoarse. His tone dull. The tears had now fallen.

“Neal, look at me,” Peter pleaded. “Everything will be fine.”

Jorge pressed the gun deeper into his temple. “I don’t think you’re appreciating the lengths I went through to be here.”

“You’re insane. Deranged. Leave. Disappear. Neal wants nothing to do with you.”

“Stop talking, Peter,” Neal said. He knew this game, he knew it better than anyone.

Jorge was quick. He lifted Peter up by his arm and slammed him into wall. He placed his forearm underneath his chin, pinning him. Peter tried with every bit of strength to push him back, but Jorge responded by pointing the gun right in his face. “Listen to Neal, and shut the fuck up! This is all your doing. You did this. You tried to keep him away from me. Don’t you get it? We belong together!”

“He wants nothing to do with you!”

“Let him go,” Neal said. His voice cracked, full of defeat. “Take me, just let Peter go, okay?”

“No!” Peter shouted.

Jorge’s grip tightened, sweat dripped down his face. He was definitely on something. Peter was now having a harder time breathing. He willed his body to relax. “But if I kill him, he won’t be able to keep up apart again.”

“Please, don’t hurt him. I'll do anything you want!” Neal pleaded.

Jorge’s forearm was tight against Peter’s neck, making it almost impossible for him to breathe, let alone speak. A sly grin crept along Jorge’s mouth. His dark eyes beaming into Peters. “Anything?”

“Yes, anything! I’m yours.”

“N…n…n...no…” Peter struggled to say.

Jorge’s anger increased, if even possible, by this small utterance. He now pushed his entire weight against the Federal man.

Neal couldn’t watch anymore. He knew first-hand the wrath this man could bring, the damage he could inflict. He stepped forward, almost sprinting, until he was beside the two men. Centimeters from the stance. “Jorge, look at me. Look at me, baby.” He hid his disgust at the pet name, but he knew it would work.

And it did.

Jorge turned his head.

“Don’t waste your energy on him. You’ll need it for me, won’t you?” His tone was soft, persuasive. Neal Caffrey, the goddamn con man at work.

And just as predicted, Jorge’s stance lessened. His grip loosed, just a smidge—but the gun, the gun remained pointed at Peter’s head. A beat passed, and finally, he spoke. “No funny business.”

Neal shook his head. “No.”

“Ne…Nea…Neal, don…don’t do thi—” Peter struggled.

“Ignore him,” Neal said smoothly. “He’s just jealous, but I’m yours. I only want you. Leave him out of this. It just you and me.”

Jorge was silent, contemplating. He nodded. “Okay.” In one swift motion, he lowered his arm and threw one hard suckerpunch to Peter’s stomach, sending him to the floor. Peter landed on his hands and knees, struggling with all his might to inhale air.

“What are you doing?! You said you would leave him out of this!” Neal yelled.

Jorge reached into his back pocket, producing a needle. He bit the plastic cap off with his mouth and immediately punctured Peter’s arm with the tip. He pushed the syringe down.

“No!” Neal screamed, grabbing Jorge’s arm, pulling him. This had no real effect, as Neal had minimal strength compared to the deranged man. Jorge responded in the only way he knew how. He grabbed Neal by the jaw and hurdled him against the wall.

“I can still shoot him,” he sneered, pointing the gun back at Peter. “Is that what you want?”

“You said—”

“I know what I said, Neal. And I fully intend on leaving him out of this, pending your behavior and promise you just made to me. Don’t you see? He wants you! He doesn’t want anyone else to have you! All I gave him was a little relaxant. The same one I would give you when you would get a little rowdy.”

Neal, who was now the one struggling to breathe, looked past Jorge’s shoulder. Peter was on his back, staring at the ceiling. Neal saw he was breathing, air going in and out. He saw him try and move his hands and feet, but they were slow to responding. Neal knew it was a matter of seconds before he wouldn’t be able to move at all.

“I meant what I said, I can still shoot him,” Jorge sneered, squeezing harder.

“No. He…he just doesn’t know any better. He shouldn’t be hurt because of his stupidity.” He felt the hold lessen. Seconds passed.Neal thought his heart was going to explode. Finally, Jorge let go, and put the gun in the waistband of his pants.

“Stupid or not, he still needs to learn a lesson.”

Neal closed his eyes. _Wake up. Wake up!_ “Don’t…don’t make him watch, please?”

Jorge inched closer to him. Neal seemed to shrink. His back was back against the wall. Jorge raised his hand and Neal held his breath for impact. He felt fingers cusp his jaw. “No crying. No screaming. I want you to enjoy it. I need you to show me that you love me.”

Neal closed his eyes, praying tears did not fall when he opened them. When he did and looked at the monster that wanted to take more of him away, even though there was barely anything left, he said one word to seal his fate and ensure Peter’s safety. “Okay.”


	23. Chapter 23

He doesn’t know how he got to the Burkes' unfinished basement. He doesn’t remember walking down the stairs or how his jacket or shoes were removed. He does remember Jorge’s hands around his waist, pulling him closer, and breathing into his ear and running his fingers through his hair. “I missed you, baby,” he said, kissing his neck.

Neal forced himself to breathe steadily. “I, I missed you too.”

Jorge’s fingers played with the hem of Neal’s pants. “I want to feel your body against mine so badly,” he said, pulling his shirt off. He unzipped his pants and pulled them down. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath them. “Take off your clothes, honey.”

Neal’s body had gone numb. His brain did as well. He couldn’t understand how this was real. “I...I’m…”

“Aww, you’re nervous,” Jorge said, reaching for Neal’s shirt. He lifted it over his head and threw it to the floor. His fingers went to the hem of his pants and slid them off.

Neal was guided, gently, to the floor. It was cold and hard underneath his back. He felt Jorge’s hot breathe on his neck, breathing it on him in between wet sloppy kisses. He focused on the ceiling, commanding his brain not to move his arms to form fists, and his eyes not to form tears. He undeniably heard the sound of spit—the impromptu form of lube.

“Look at me, Neal.”

As he conceded, his stomach curled into a tight knot and all the air in his chest evaporated.

“Don’t make that face,” Jorge said.

Neal forced his features to relax. He unhinged his jaw and counted ‘Mississippis’ in his head, making sure to breathe evenly between each one. He tried not to focus on the pain or the immense cruelty.

Jorge picked up the pace. Deeper, faster, repeat. Neal bit his lip, unable to contain his reaction to the brutality. “Stop!” he blurted. Air hitched inside his lungs. When he opened his eyes, he knew there were hot tears rolling out.

“What? What’s wrong baby?” Jorge panted, out of breath.

Neal could see the fire start to ignite in his eyes. The anger was there, it always was—just waiting for an excuse to rupture.

“Just…please, don’t go so fast.”

Jorge’s features softened. He placed his thumbs underneath Neal’s eyes and wiped away the pool of wetness. “I just got excited.”

Neal sniffled, sucking back in the tears. Jorge started to thrust again, slower, but at a pace. The pain was still excruciating; he was after all, being torn apart. Neal turned his head, so his cheek was against the floor. Maybe the tears would go unnoticed, because he couldn’t stop them now.

Jorge suddenly stopped ‘making love’. He sighed. “This isn’t working for me.”

Neal didn’t respond—he had tuned everything out. His focus remained on the wall, until Jorge’s rough hand grabbed his jaw.

“You are an ungrateful little bitch, you know that, Neal?”

“I know,” he whispered. It was so matter-of-fact, his response.

He got a hard backhand across the face for that concession.

“Do you know how much trouble I went through to have this moment with you? And you almost had me fooled back there, putting on a show for me, telling me you were going to enjoy this.”

Another backhand.

“But you lied. You fucking lied to me,” Jorge said, running his finger along the blood now dripping from Neal’s lip. He swirled it down his chin, his neck, and then onto his chest. His next moves were sudden. He grabbed Neal’s arm and rolled him onto his stomach. He grabbed a fistful of his hair, lifting his head, and then slammed it into the ground. His blood appeared almost black against the gray cement.

Jorge placed his hand in the crook of Neal’s neck and squeezed as he entered him again. “I know you don’t want to scream, Neal. You don’t want Burke to hear you, right? You love him, don’t you!” he screamed, thrusting deeper.

Hot tears engulfed Neal’s vision to the point he couldn’t see.

Sweat dripped onto his back, and then finally Jorge’s beer belly collapsed on top of him. He remained in this position for several minutes. After he felt Neal’s breathing become even, he ran his fingers up his spine, ensuring a straight shiver. His hand clasped Neal’s right shoulder and his teeth sunk into the left side of the crook of his neck. He bit down until he tasted blood.

Neal let out a small whimper.

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Jorge said. His hand left his shoulder and traveled back down until they encased the left side of his ribcage. “Tell me not to do it.”

Neal said not a word. He bit his lip in anticipation.

Jorge squeezed, harder and harder, with every second passing, more ounces of pressure were applied.

_CRACK_

“You see how well I have taught you?” His tone was sadistic. Like clockwork, his right hand began to travel to the right side of his rib cage.

“No,” Neal whispered through a labored breath.

“Just like old times,” Jorge said.

_CRACK_

Jorge stood, proud, like he had accomplished what he set out to do. He grabbed his clothes and proceeded to put them on. When he was done, he took his foot and slid it underneath Neal’s stomach, rolling him onto his back.

Neal concentrated on breathing. It wasn’t hard to fall back into that rhythm, breathing through broken ribs. How sick. He tasted the blood running down the back of his throat. Jorge threw his clothes at him. “Get dressed.”

Every part of his body was in excruciating pain, but he had trained his mind a long time ago to ignore it. He doesn’t remember putting on his pants, and he doesn’t know how he lifted his arms to put his shirt over his head, but he did. He did it all while sitting on the floor, because he knew getting up would mean a whole different world of pain.

“Now let’s go see your friend,” Jorge said, grabbing him by the arm.

“You said you’d leave him out of this.”

He got another backhand across the face, and if it wasn’t for his rapist holding him, he would have been on the floor again.

“That was before you lied to me. But it doesn’t matter, because the joke’s on you. I was lying too.” He turned around and took a step towards the stairs.

Neal pulled back. “Just leave. Don’t involve Peter. You can take me with you—but leave him out of this. I beg you.”

Jorge stopped. He chuckled. “You call that begging?”

Neal didn’t respond. He had to stall. He had to wait for the drug to wear off on Peter so he could call for help.

“You know what really pisses me off?” Jorge asked. “You’ve shown you care about him more within the last hour than you’ve ever shown for me. How can you possibly explain that?”

 _Because he never raped me. He never kidnapped me. He never beat me._ “I…I…”

“Save it!” he screamed. “You’ve betrayed me, Neal. And now I have to hurt you the way you hurt me. And the only justification I see for that is to kill Peter.” He turned back around, keeping his arm tight around Neal.

Neal grabbed the hem of his pants, this time with force. “No.”

Jorge chuckled. “Didn’t you have enough?” he turned around and threw his fist into Neal’s left eye, sending him to the floor. “I guess not. But I’m happy to give you more!” He kicked him in the stomach, resulting in a loud screech of pain as the shoe made contact with certain broken ribs.

Neal fought through this and grabbed Jorge’s leg, sending him to the floor. He lifted his body and curled his arm to his chest and then plummeted down, his elbow landing deep into his rapist's stomach.

Jorge screamed in pain of his own, finally.

The adrenaline soared through him. He stood and kicked, and kicked, and kicked. He kicked for every time he was raped, every time he was slapped, every time he was punched. And then he ran. He had to get up those stairs, he had to get to Peter, he had to call for help. He grabbed the railing and started to go, faster and faster. He got to the top and put one foot onto the linoleum, but as he started to lift the other, he felt it—the monster had him. He face hit the hard surface first, his ribs second. The force was enough for him to black out, but he wouldn't allow it. He had to save Peter.

He felt hands grab his shirt. He reached forward, trying to find something. His hands made contact with the legs of the metal stand the Burkes used to throw their keys on. It fell forward and the glass vase fell, shattering into pieces. Neal tried to grab a piece but before he could, Jorge lifted him with ease and his back was slammed into the wall. If smoke could come out of Jorge’s ears, this would be the moment. “I’m going to kill Burke, and then I’m going to kill you. I’m going to take my time with you too.”

Neal, breathing heavily, spit in his face. “Fuck you.”

Jorge sucker punched him in the stomach so hard, blood spewed from his mouth, sending it out like a drill that just hit oil. Neal knew he had to prolong this. They couldn’t enter the kitchen. He grabbed Jorge's arms, pulling him down to the ground.

“You want more?” Jorge screamed, falling on top of him.

Neal threw a punch, hitting the monster in the mouth. He fell to his side. Neal had to get up now. If he could get to Peter and drag him to another room. That could work. That could buy them time to call for help.

But Jorge grabbed him, pulling him back to the floor. He placed his hand over his neck while he straddled him, eventually pinning him.

“AHHHHH!” Neal screamed. Pain. Instant pain, different. Much different than before. A sadistic smile emerged from Jorge's lips. His dark eyes peering into Neal's blue ones. He peered down, looking at the large piece of glass that was halfway emerged into his stomach. 

“Now I think you’ve had enough,” Jorge sneered, pushing it in further.

“No,” Neal gasped, as he was dragged to the kitchen.

He was placed inches from Peter’s feet. If Neal looked at him, he would have seen the tears streaming down his face.

“Ne..Neal,” Peter said.

“Well look at that, he can talk again. Too bad he can’t move yet, otherwise I’m sure he would ‘save you’, and of course get out of the way of the bullet I’m about to kill him with.” Jorge stood straight. “Did you hear us, Burke? Did you hear me making sweet love to Neal?”

“You’re a monster.”

"Not the last words I would have chose for myself, but hey, to each their own. Anything you want to say, Neal, before I send your precious Peter on his way?"

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Neal whispered, turning towards him. “I…I…tried…”

“I know, Neal,” Peter said, trying to look past the blood and the bruises. He forced a small smile, like everything would be okay. "I know."


	24. Chapter 24

“Well isn’t that fucking sweet," Jorge sneered in a mocking tone. "Any other words before he dies?" He reached behind, into the back of his waistband. “What the? Where is it?” he whispered.

“You didn’t really think I would touch you if I didn’t have to, did you?” Neal asked turning onto his back. The gun was in his hands, his fingers on the trigger.

A sick grin unfolded unto Jorge’s lips. “Well, well. Neal. You finally grew a pair. But you and I both know you’re not going to pull that trigger. You're a lover, not a fighter. So lets skip this charade and--”

_BOOM_

Smoke whiffed from the barrel. Jorge’s eyes widened, almost in disbelief. He coughed. Blood dripped out of his mouth. His hands went to his stomach. Blood started to ooze like water from a hose out of the bullet hole. “You—”

_BOOM_

_BOOM_

Two more bullets fired, this time into his chest.

Jorge's lips parted, but no words came. He took one step forward and then crumpled to the floor. There was some incoherent gurgling, and then, then he was still.

Jorge was dead.

Neal’s hands suddenly shook, though they were impressivley steady seconds before. Tears leaked from his eyes as he went limp.

“Neal…Neal. Call 911,” Peter said.

But he didn’t move. His eyes were open, but he didn’t move.

“Neal, look at me.”

He didn’t. He instead kept his eyes on the ceiling. And then he felt it, the pain. The soreness, the sting, the burn, the disgustingness still in between his legs.

It would never go away.

"N..Neal..." Peter said softly. He knew exactly what was going through his head. He wish he didn't, but he did. So there was no surprise when he saw him do what he did next.

Neal lifted his right hand, the hand with the gun in it, raising it, higher and higher. The end of the barrel finally rested against his temple.

“NEAL.”

The firmness in Peter's voice instantly broke him out of his trance. He turned his head, finally locking eyes with him. "I’m sorry, Peter.”

Peter, who could start to feel his extremities again, shook his head. “Put the gun down. Now.”

“Did you hear it?" he asked. His tone was numb, mindless, like this was a casual conversation in the park. "I tried to be quiet.”

Peter closed his eyes. He did hear it. “No.”

Neal nodded. “Good, but I ruined your floor,” he said. “The resale value will be shit now. A lot of blood, most of its mine, some of it his. I got some good licks in this time. Finally.”

“Ne…Nea…Neal…” Peter said. It took every ounce of energy he had to say his name.

“It doesn’t matter,” Neal whispered. “But I am sorry.”

Tears fell from Peter’s eyes. “Please, Neal. Put the gun in my hand.”

Neal shook his head. “I…I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“He’s dead. He’ll never touch you again. It’s over.”

“You don’t get it. It’s not. I have to live with this for the rest of my life. Every day I’ll have to wake up, and think about this. All of this. You see I haven’t gotten any better since I got out of there.”

“I know,” Peter said frantically. He wiggled his foot. He shook his hand. Movement. “And it’s not fair, not one bit, but please don’t do this, Neal. Please.”

Neal did not lower the gun from his head, he just started sobbing. Loud, drawn out.

Pain. There was only pain.

It took every ounce of strength he had, but Peter moved. He pushed himself with great necessity. He pushed his body forward, landing on his left side, his left hand on the floor. “Neal, look at me.”

Through his anguish, he did. He would do Peter one more favor.

“I know you are in pain. Physically, emotionally, psychologically. I don’t blame you for feeling the way you do, and I know this seems like the best solution, but I’m telling you, it isn’t.”

"After what he did...after what he did right here, tonight, in your home. I can't. I can't live with it. It's better this way. I know."

“Don’t let him win. I know he took so much from you already—but he’s dead now, so don’t let him keep anymore power over you. Do not let him take anything else. Including your life. This is how you win.” Neal’s grip relaxed slightly. His words worked, as they should have, because they were true. He slowly reached for his hand. “I’m going to take the gun from you, okay?”

Neal felt Peter’s large fingers over his, and, gently, slowly, remove the gun from his grasp. He heard him disengage it, remove the bullets.

It was almost instant how the adrenaline fully vanished and how explosive, full body pain came quickly in its replacement. His broken ribs, his broken nose, his fractured cheek, the glass embedded in his skin. The burn from the rape. He looked down at his arms, at his shirt, at the blood, at Jorge’s dead body in the corner.

The disgust filled him again, only this time stronger than before. A surge of great regret flooded his brainwaves. His fingers crept down towards his stomach. They gripped the shard of glass. He pulled, welcoming the fresh wave of pain.

“No!” Peter screamed, dropping the phone to the floor. The 911 operator would have to do with the little information given. He looked around, unable to stand just yet, thankfully his arm was long enough to reach the washcloth hanging off the refrigerator handle. He bent forward and applied it to Neal’s gushing stab wound.

Neal closed his eyes, but he did not scream.

“I know, I know it hurts,” Peter said. “Help is coming.”

“Let go.”

Peter almost couldn’t believe his ears. "W..what?!"

“I can’t do it,” Neal said. “I can’t. Please, stop applying pressure and let me bleed to death.”

Tears fell from Peter’s eyes. He placed his free hand on Neal’s head. He surveyed the cut on his head, the bruises on his cheeks, the blood on his lips and nose and neck. The two locked eyes.

“It won’t be a bad way to go, it will be like falling asleep."

“Jesus Christ,” Peter said under his breath. "I'm not going to let you die."

Neal turned his head, his cheek against the floor, the very same position he was in when Jorge had raped him only an hour or so ago. Tears fell again. His arm reached for the one Peter had over his wound. He tried with all his might to remove it. Peter sobbed as he fought back by simply not budging.

“I saved your life!” Neal screamed. “Do this for me! You owe me, you fucking owe me! You sent me into that room, into that undercover op. You’re the reason he laid his eyes on me, the reason he took me, the reason he held me captive, the reason I was raped and beaten so many times! I earned this! So fucking let go and let me die!”

And just like that, those words burned him like acid eating flesh, and Peter immediately removed his hand.

Neal had fought back, and he won.


	25. Chapter 25

_He willed his inner-self to believe this was a nightmare. Yes, he had taken an Ambien—one of Elizabeth’s Ambiens, and he was having one of those weird, terrible dreams that people say they have. A side effect of sorts. He certainly couldn’t be in his kitchen, drugged, listening to Neal being raped in his own goddamn house._

_But he was._

_He tried so damn hard to move, but no matter how much is brain screamed at his limbs to do so, they simply did not. How did Neal feel, all those months, in that house with that monster, injected with this very drug, raped, beaten within inches of his life? The violation had to be unimaginable, the pain, the mental brutality of not even having the opportunity to fight back. Did Jorge, somehow in his sick, twisted mind, believe this to be consent? Did it make it easier for him to touch his captive?_

_“Scream for him, Neal! Scream for Agent Burke, like I know you fucking want to, you fucking whore!”_

_A fresh wave of tears fell from Peter’s eyes. He knew exactly what was occurring only 25 feet away from him, 10 feet underneath him. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it._

_“Somebody! Help!” he screamed. But he was a bright man and he knew no one could hear him. He didn’t care. Logic seemed to defy the night and all the events leading up to it._

_And when Neal was slammed into that wall in his hallway, when he heard the glass break, when he heard him scream that loud, long, painful scream…_

“Peter.”

_And then when he finally emerged, tight within Jorge’s grip…all that blood, all those cuts, those bruises, that terrible limp on his right side._

“Peter!”

He jolted, turning. Diana was beside him. “What?”

“Neal is out of surgery. Everything went fine.”

He nodded, mindlessly pulling the thin, tan blanket up higher. “Good. Good. Thank you for telling me.”

She nodded, remaining quiet for a moment. “Are you okay?”

He answered truthfully. “Physically, I’m fine. Mentally, no.”

She placed her hand over his. “I’m sorry.”

“Peter!” Elizabeth screamed, walking in. She had a large bag over her shoulder but immediately dropped it at her feet.

“I’m alright, El, really.”

“No one would tell me anything,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. “Are you okay?”

Peter rubbed her back. “I’m fine, I promise.”

“I’ll be outside,” Diana said.

Peter nodded and put his hand up, thanking her.

Elizabeth pulled back. “What happened? Is Neal okay? Jones just told me to come straight to the hospital. I got on the next train out of D.C.”

“He…he got us. He got Neal, but he’s dead now.”

Elizabeth’s normally delicate features crumpled together, on the verge of tears. “Neal is…dead?”

Peter’s lips parted, his brown eyes searched her blue ones, maybe for an answer, but more for comfort. “No. Neal is alive. That man…he’s dead.”

Elizabeth nodded, trying to understand his words.

“He…I…” He couldn’t stop the tears after that. “I couldn’t stop him.” 

“Shh…” she said, pulling her husband into her arms. “You don’t have to tell me right now.”

\-------

  
When he woke up, he was on the floor. It was dark, and it smelled of wet cement. His head hurt, like a bad hangover. “Hello?” he said into the darkness. Where the hell was he? He positioned himself to stand, but his arm felt heavy. He lifted it as high as his shoulder before he felt the restriction. There was something around his wrist. He pulled. It did not budge. Suddenly, he became very aware of his body, and the pain it is was in.

His arms, his legs, his hips. His ass. A sinking feeling crept into his stomach. He closed his eyes, even though he was in darkness. He remembers being in a board room on Fifth Avenue. Men were there, men in suits. 11 to be exact. A sting. Peter had sent him into a sting. It went badly. He remembers saying ‘the SEC won’t be too pleased.’ That was the code for Peter and Jones to come in.

He saw them. Right?

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t remember anything after that. “Peter?” he said.

Suddenly, the lights above him flickered, and then they were on. He looked around. He was in a room. A basement, perhaps? A basement where though? He looked at his arm, it was indeed chained. There were no windows. The walls were made of cement. Barren, no décor. There was a small table and chair on the opposite side.

He heard a creek. He turned. A staircase. Suddenly, a man was at the bottom of them. He had never seen this man before. Or had he? He came closer. He did know him. His face registered. He was in the board room. But he couldn’t exactly place him. He doesn’t remember Peter showing him any pictures of him.

The man had a glass of water in his hand. He smiled as he approached him. He crouched down, right in front of him. “I thought you might be thirsty, Neal.”

Neal looked at the glass, and then up at this man. “Where…where am I? Who are you? What am I doing here?”

The man chuckled as he placed his hand on Neal’s thigh. “Oh, Neal. We already went over this. You don’t remember?”

Neal looked at the hand on his thigh. The grip was firm, like it was his, like it belonged to him. “Let me go.”

The man chuckled again. “You don’t really want that. You want to stay here, Neal. With me.”

That sinking feeling was not going away. It was getting stronger. “Peter is looking for me. The whole FBI—”

He got a strong backhand to the face. Unbeknownst to him, it would be the first of many. “Don’t you EVER say that name again. Do you understand me?”

Neal let the blood drip from his mouth onto the floor. “I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I’m not who you think I am. I work for…the government. People are looking for me. Just let me go. I don’t even know your name. I don’t have to tell anyone about this.”

The man grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look up. “You don’t know my name?”

Neal looked into this man’s brown eyes. There was anger in them, derangement. Deadness. “No.”

The man raised his brow, as if he couldn’t believe it. “But we had such a lovely evening together last night. Do you remember that?”

Neal could feel his body start to tremble. “No.”

The man bit his lip and closed his eyes. Neal could see the anger building. But just like that, his features softened. “Well, that might be my fault. I’ve really got to figure out that dosage. You know, now that I think about it, you weren’t very responsive…or verbal. Which is strange, considering it was your first time. I can always tell when its someone’s first time.”

The knot in Neal’s stomach was on the verge of explosion. “Fi…first time?”

The man smiled. “Yes, silly. Don’t worry, I was as gentle as I could be. I didn’t want to hurt you too badly. You’ll learn to enjoy it. I promise.”

Neal swallowed the lump in his throat. “You mean…we…you—”

“That’s right. We made love. I can’t believe you don’t remember our first time.”

Neal felt tears in his eyes. “But…but I don’t—”

“Nothing to worry about. I’ll make sure not to give you your medicine later. We can have another ‘first time’ together. How many couples get to experience that twice?”

The switch went off in Neal’s brain. He was in trouble. Real trouble. He jerked his body, sending this man’s hand off his leg. He reached for the glass and smashed it against his head. It shattered and Neal was able to hold onto a shard.

The man fell backwards. Neal stood, holding the glass in his now bloodied hand. “Stay the fuck away from me!”

The man was on his back. Laughter emerged from his lips.

“I’m not kidding. Stay the fuck away from me,” Neal said in a forceful tone. His legs shook, his arms shook. His entire body shook. His eyes darted quickly around the room. He had to think.

The man stood. There was a cut on his forehead was bleeding. He took a step towards him. “After everything I did for you. I tried to make everything so special for you, Neal.”

“Do not come near me!” Neal yelled, holding out his arm with the shard.

The man ignored him. Neal seemed to shrink. He had nowhere to go. His back was already against the wall. The man took another step and another. Neal whipped his hand at his neck, nicking it, but it wasn’t good enough. The man grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard. Neal felt the glass embed into his skin as he cried out in pain.

The man placed his forearm underneath Neal’s chin, pinning him. He could barely breathe. “It’s always the pretty ones who are feisty,” he said under his breath. Neal could see the anger in his eyes intensifying. “Listen, and listen good. You will learn to respect me. You will learn to honor me. And you will learn to please me. If you do not do those things, you will learn the hard way. It will be unpleasant, and it will hurt. Do you understand me?”

Neal really couldn’t breathe now. He felt the man’s other hand grasp at the right side of his ribcage. He felt pressure being applied. Neal tried to push him off but he didn’t budge an inch.

_CRACK_

Neal’s lips parted, as did the tears in his eyes.

The pain was extraordinary.

The man released him abruptly and Neal slid to the ground. He struggled to inhale, the pain in his ribs exploding in waves. He had no time to recover before this man’s boot made contact with his stomach. Neal put his hands up, as if that would shield him. The man crouched once again. His ran his fingers through Neal’s hair. “Do you understand me, baby?”

Neal felt the pressure again start to build. He managed to inhale, though it hurt like hell. “Ye…yes.”

The man smiled. “Good,” he said, as he continued to run his fingers through his captive’s hair. “Very good. I’m going to get some gauze for your hand. And Neal?”

Neal opened his eyes, beyond terrified if he didn’t.

“My name is Jorge. Don’t ever forget that.”

\------------

He heard the beeping before he opened his eyes. He listened for a few seconds. _BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._ A heart monitor, he determined.

He was not dead.

He tried to open his eyes, but only one would obey. He knew with unfortunate familiarity, that the other was swollen shut.

“Hey.”

It was a woman’s voice. Her black hair came into focus, as did her black suit. But the rest of her was fuzzy, like this was some old television with pitifully bad reception.

“If you’re in pain, press this button,” she said, placing a plastic device in his hand. “It will release morphine.”

That was Diana’s voice.

“I didn’t want you to wake up alone. Peter is a few rooms down.”

The morphine was shining his insides now and the pain dissipated. “Is he okay?”

“Fine. Just a precaution.”

“And me? What’s the damage this time?”

She took a longer breathe. “You were hurt very badly, Neal.”

He tried to swallow, the cottonmouth was almost painful. “I know.”

\-----------

“Isn’t this nice, Neal? We’re like an old married couple, just another Wednesday, eating dinner, listening to the oldies.”

He looked up, up at his captor, sitting across the table, a knife and fork in his hand, a white plate in front of him, a steak on it, green beans on the side. The flame from the candle in the center flickered.

He tried again to move his feet, but honestly, he couldn’t even feel them anymore. The chains were so tight it seemed they were cutting off circulation.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Jorge asked. His tone was upbeat, innocent even.

“It’s kind of hard to eat like this,” he said, lifting his hands. They were zip-tied together.

Jorge chuckled, like he said the most enduring thing. “I know, I know, it’s not ideal, but I cut up your steak, so it’ll be very easy for you to eat with your fingers.”

“Maybe you could take these off, and I could eat normally.”

Jorge chuckled again as he reached for his glass of wine. “I’m not falling for that again, Neal. You remember what happened last time we tried that, don’t you?”

Neal neither nodded nor verbally affirmed. His left eye was still swollen, as was his cheek. Three days prior, he had smashed his plate against the wooden table, and tried to use a shard of glass as a weapon against his captor. Jorge was quicker though and lunged his entire body against him, leading to a scuffle on the floor. He looked down now at his paper plate. There would be no breaking of anything today. At least not silverware.

“I really wish you would stop resisting. Things would be so much easier for you. I mean, it’s already been a month since you’ve been here. Just accept this is your life, Neal. We could be so happy. Don't you want to be happy?”

\-----------

The next time he woke up, the sun was gone. The fluorescent lights were bright and hurt his head. His whole body was sore. He moved his fingers, trying to find that plastic button.

He gave up after three seconds and instead focused on trying to open his eye more. There was someone in the room with him. A woman, with long brown hair, that’s all he could see. She was looking out the window, out at the night sky.

He licked his dry lips, feeling the scab over it. He tried again to find the button. His bones were screaming in agony. He felt plastic but his coordination was so off, he only ended up pushing it off the bed. He closed his eye in tiredness, frustration, and of course, pain.

“Neal, sweetie?” He heard her heels clap against the linoleum. He felt her heat over his body. She placed the plastic device in between his fingers. He pressed it immediately. One second, two seconds, three seconds. Ahh, velvet insides.

“Hi,” he whispered. His throat hurt. All that screaming, crying, begging.

She placed her hand over his, gently. Her touch was always gentle.

“I’m so sorry, Neal.”

He heard her tears before he saw them. He didn’t want to make Elizabeth cry. He shook his head, though it was more of an attempt than an actual shake. “No, please, don’t.” _There I go again, begging._

But she obeyed. Her tears receded and she put on a tough smile. “Peter told me. He told me what happened. I…I wish was there—”

His lips parted, to stop her of course.

“I know what you want to say, that you’re glad I wasn’t. But if I was, maybe I could have stopped him. I know that’s a foolish thing to say, but I can’t help it.”

His eyes struggled to stay open. He licked his chapped lips again, trying to form words.

“You saved Peter’s life, Neal. Thank you.”

He heard her tears again.

“He’s so angry with himself, that he couldn’t stop…”

“Tired…Elizabe…” he said between labored breaths.

She nodded, rubbing his wrist. “Okay, go back to sleep.”

\-----------

It was cold, so cold. He stopped to catch his breath, frost escaping his lips. It hurt, everything hurt. He looked down at his bare feet. They were covered in blood and dirt. He didn’t want to look up though, the daylight hurt his eyes. He hadn’t breathed fresh air in almost 3 months.

He started to move again. Over tree limbs, over rocks. He had to keep moving. He kept going. And then, he fell. He fell over a branch, face first into mud. He thinks he hit his head on a rock too. He felt his forehead, blood.

He heard leaves rustling.

He was coming.

He got up. Move, Neal. Move.

He started to sprint, even though he was sure his ankle was sprained, and his ribs were broken. He didn’t stop. And then he was at the end, at the end of the hill. He grabbed the tree in front of him to stop himself from falling. He heard water. He looked down. A stream.

And then he saw to the right, a tent. Camping. People were here.

“H..help,” he said, but he meant to scream it. “Someone, help me!”

Nothing but silence answered him.

“Please!” he screamed with all his might.

And then he saw it. The tent opening. Someone was inside. They were fumbling at the zipper.

He let out tears of relief. “Please—”

He was on the ground now. He didn’t even feel the rock make contact with the back of his head. He felt weight on top of him. Jorge’s weight. He opened his eyes, everything was double.

“Is someone there?” a woman yelled.

Jorge’s hand was over his mouth. Pressure was applied. He could barely breath, let alone talk. “Don’t even think about it,” he whispered. The harshness in his tone told Neal to listen.

“Hello?” she said again. “Tom, you heard that right? Before?”

“Yea,” a man’s voice said. “Hello? Is there someone there!?”

Neal squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking out. He was so close. His fingers searched for something, anything. He felt nothing but moist dirt.

“It was probably an animal, honey,” the man said. “C’mon, let’s go back to bed.”

Neal shook his head. Jorge applied more pressure. He heard the undeniable zip of the tent being closed.

He was rolled onto his back. Jorge’s red, angry face beaming down on him. “If you talk above a whisper, I will actually kill you right here.”

“Please, just let me go. Just leave me here. I won’t tell anyone about you, I promise,” he whispered.

Jorge smiled. “No. No, no, no, Neal. That’s not how this works.”

“But…but I…”

“You are going to pay dearly for this little outing this morning, you know that, right?” Jorge said, producing zip-ties from his jacket pocket.

Neal closed his eyes as they were tightened around his wrists.

“But, if you cooperate with me on the walk back, I can guarantee you a hot shower. Otherwise I will hose you down outside and leave you in wet clothes overnight.”

Neal looked up at the gray sky. He thought it was so beautiful.

“Do we have a deal?” Jorge asked, hoisting him up off the ground.

Neal looked at his captor, and nodded. He tried, right?

\--------------

The third time he woke up, the sun was setting. The grogginess was now familiar territory.

“Neal!”

He forced his eye open. He turned his head slightly, that’s all he could do. He was dressed in regular clothes, no gown. He must have been discharged. That was good. He aged ten years it seemed. That was bad.

“You were…having a nightmare.”

Neal exhaled. He felt the sweat on his forehead, on his neck, on his chest. He squeezed his eye shut, but he instantly saw the dirt, the trees, his bare, bloodied feet. He opened his eye again. "I was so close!"

Peter placed his hand over his. He nodded. "I know."

Neal shook his head, trying to inhale. "I tasted fresh air and everything. I ...found…a paper clip…undid the chains…squeezed through a window. I had no shoes, or socks, my feet were bleeding 2 minutes out in those woods. And I…ran. I was probably a mile out…I saw a tent…campers. I screamed for help. But…by the time they came… he found me. Hit me over the head with a rock.”

Peter buried his head in his hands, a deep cry elicited from his lips. “Jesus."

"I'm not lying! I almost made it."

Peter's head sprung up. "No, Neal. I believe you."

Neal slipped his hand out from underneath Peter's. He reached over to his left arm, grabbing the IV.

"No," Peter said, swiftly placing his hand over his. "Do not take that out."

Neal's eyes searched his brown ones, desperation laced with them. He shook his head. "I DON'T WANT THESE DRUGS. They keep me asleep too long."

Peter nodded. "Okay. I'll have a doctor or nurse come in and take it out, okay?"

Neal felt his entire body shaking. After a long minute, he nodded. 

"Okay. Just relax. Relax," Peter said, removing his arm. 

Neal watched with grave judgment, it seemed. His posture loosened a smidge.

The two remained silent for several seconds, that is until Peter spoke. It was as though he was trying to build up the courage to do so. "Neal, we have to talk about what happened."

Neal shook his head, once, from side to side. 

"Neal-"

"Please. I can't."

"How about if I talk then? I NEED to say some things."

"I'm so tired-"

"I promise you can go right back to sleep-"

"No. I mean I'm so exhausted. From this. From everything. The last year of my life has been....so consumed with this. I'm asleep, I'm awake. It doesn't matter. That's why I wanted to bleed to death on your kitchen floor. It's so goddamn excruciating."

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat. He exhaled. "Okay, maybe later then.

Neal sighed a small sense of relief. He nodded and closed his eye. "Yea, maybe later."


End file.
